


be I a poor man or a king

by aceofjapan



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (between minor characters), Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Family Secrets, Fluff and Angst, Historical Inaccuracy, Inspired by Novel, Intrigue, M/M, Makkachin Lives, Minor Character Death, Morally Ambiguous Character, My apologies but, Mystery, No Period-Typical Homophobia, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Racism, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, Think what you'd expect from a murder mystery, Threats of Violence, Vicchan (Yuri!!! on Ice) Dies, it's not as bad as it sounds i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 47,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23680678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofjapan/pseuds/aceofjapan
Summary: There are secrets in Yuuri’s past that he’d rather keep to himself. There are secrets in Victor’s past that he doesn't even know about.Two men defying society’s expectations—two families connected through a violent past. One name shrouded in endless mysteries: Nikiforov.—The Victorian Mystery AU based on Wilkie Collins'Armadale
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Yakov Feltsman & Katsuki Yuuri, Yakov Feltsman & Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 138
Kudos: 70
Collections: YOI REGENCY WEEK





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on the actual Victorian novel Armadale by Wilkie Collins. Ever since I first read it I couldn't help but see Victor and Yuuri in the two main characters. I've adjusted the plot to fit the characters better and to make it a little less complicated, but if you happen to know the novel, there will be plenty of elements you'll recognise. I feel like I should mention though you need to know absolutely nothing about it to go into this, this is specifically aimed at people who have not read the book.
> 
> Despite what the tags suggests, this story will not be super angsty. But it does have lots of elements of a murder mystery, so some not so good shit will go down. If there's anything in particular you're concerned about, you're always welcome to reach out and ask about it.
> 
> I want to thank Aze, Harky and Zjo for betaing and Tess and Riki for their plot doctoring help.
> 
> This is posted for Regency/Victorian Week 2020, Day 2: Letters.

__

_My most beloved children,_

_I write this letter to be read when you are of an age to understand it. You are young now, and I am not well and have relinquished hope that I shall see a day where I may tell you myself the events that are relayed in this letter. It is with a heavy heart that I burden you with this knowledge, for I should rather that you lead a carefree and happy life without your mother‘s history to weigh on you. But there are important facts that I must give, dire warnings that I must pronounce._

_So here I sit at my writing desk, and even as I write I can hear you both in the next room at play with your father. It makes me ache to think that I must spend these hours bent over a letter instead of playing with my children, relishing in their laughter and their carefree play as long as I‘m still able._

_But it is vain to lament over this; no amount of sorrow shall change the circumstances that have brought me here, and so I shall set pen to paper swiftly so that I do not waste a minute more over this letter than I must._

_This letter details to you the events of my youth and the circumstances that have led to our family bearing the name of Nikiforov, the name that has weighed so heavily on my shoulders ever since it was bestowed on me._

_You must know that I was not born with the name Nikiforov, nor did I receive it in marriage. Though we but rarely mention the name in our house, have indeed hardly used it at all since we have come to England, it is indeed my, and therefore your, legal name. Here is the story of how we came to bear it._

_When I was young, only a girl barely out of my youth, my family one day received correspondence from the man who was my godfather, until then a far removed but benevolent and generous guardian of my spiritual well-being. You see, our family at the time lived in the colonies far to the east, whereas my godfather, an old friend of the family, still resided in England upon his estate. I had rarely heard of him, only received the occasional letter and generous gift, and had never met the man in person._

_This correspondence, then, that reached our family, told of his plight with his own: He had a child, a son, who had been set to be his heir and become the master of his estate after his death. This son, however, Andrei by name, had taken from his youth onwards a path toward becoming a scoundrel and a disgrace. He liked to drink and gamble, and was loose with his affections, and all of his father’s attempts at guiding him back to a better path had been in vain. He was unrepentant about his deeds even after his father‘s sternest reprimands, and utterly shameless in his dishonour._

_Recently, he had crossed a line when he had seduced the daughter of a lord into his bed, getting her with child, and had subsequently convinced her to trick her family into letting them marry in order to restore her honour. With the help of her maid, who was handy with a pen, they had forged a letter from my godfather approving of the union and, thus having procured her family’s blessing, they married. So Andrei believed to have swindled his way to his wife’s inheritance and title. But the deceit must be revealed eventually, and rather than accept the union now that it was already tied as Andrei had hoped, his wife’s family disinherited her and cast her out to live in disgrace._

_My godfather, Andrei’s father, upon learning of the events, saw himself faced with no other choice than to disinherit his son as well, lest he bring more disrepute on the honourable Nikiforov name. He had, however, no other living relations of a younger generation than his own, and so he looked towards his godchild in his search for a suitable replacement for his rightful heir._

_In short, I was to be given the Nikiforov title, if I was willing to accept, and along with it the ownership of the estate in England, the inheritance and the responsibilities over the people living and working on the estate. It was a great honour bestowed on me, and though I had rarely been to England in my own short life and knew nothing more about running an estate than what I had learned on my own parents‘ much more humble property, I accepted with humility._

_I was young still and my godfather was in good health, so I was told not to haste in my move to England. My education was all but completed, but I was already engaged to be wedded to your father at the time, and between the wedding and the expectancy and birth of my first child soon afterwards, it took a couple of years until my beloved husband and I were ready to make the move to England._

_During that time, a new arrival appeared in our settlement and took on work as a steward on my parents‘ property. He was a friendly and exceedingly clever young man, or so was our impression at the time. He was roughly of an age with me and your father and he did not appear to have any relations in the colonies at all. But he was easy company, a good sport with our child and he seemed to seek out companionship, so we both of us befriended him and spent some of our free time together with him._

_It was only after some months that it occurred to me that he might be seeking out my company more than that of my husband, and that he was becoming exceedingly familiar with me when we did spend time together without him. I tried to make it clear to him as subtly and sensibly as I could, in order to spare his feelings which I believed to be of a tender nature toward me, that there was much love between me and your father and that I was quite unquestioningly happy with my marriage._

_Our new friend did not seem inclined to take a hint and continued to seek me out. I never felt like he was overstepping any boundaries of propriety, nor did I feel uncomfortable around him except in small, insignificant instances, but I did feel rather sorry for the futility of his advances. Discussing the matter with my husband we were both of us certain that our friend must be quite lonely all by himself in so far away a land, so we expended our best efforts to help him be part of the local community and connect to other people of our age._

_All our efforts were quite useless, though, for he seemed disinclined to spend time with anyone else on our island. In hindsight, it appears rather obvious why, though we did not nearly guess it at the time. You may have guessed it by now, though, if you both continue to be as bright and clever as you are already proving to be, that his name was not the one that he had introduced himself with, but was, in fact, Andrei Nikiforov._

_After being cast out by his father and disinherited, he had searched out the person who was to replace him. What exactly it was the he wanted to achieve with me, I am not certain; whether he was hoping that I would leave my husband and instead marry him and thus give him back what he saw as his rightful inheritance, or whether he just wanted to entice me into an affair to ruin my reputation so that I, too, would be cast out by his father as he had been cast out. I know not; he never cared to explain it to me and I never cared to ask. What I do know is that he remained our friend for the time we were in the colonies, and when the time came that my husband and I should leave for England, he declared that he would not bear to be parted from us, his dearest friends, and booked his passage on the ship right alongside us._

_As I had mentioned it before, we did not mind his company before and we did not mind it then, and we didn‘t think much of him returning to his home with us. There was many a young man or woman who spent a couple of years far away from home in the colonies, seeing something of the world and a few days‘ honest work before settling down in marriage. We did not, therefore, give his accompanying us a second thought as we set off on our long journey to England…._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic title and all chapter titles are from the song ["If I was" by VNV Nation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ihGIupNsu7M).
> 
> A note on historical accuracy: I am relying mostly on the source material to guide me, but in order to make it work with the characters, I‘m taking some liberties. Thus, for example, the nebulous „colonies“ used to incorporate the characters‘ backgrounds. I‘m not a historian but a literary scholar, so I take my info from fiction 🤷


	2. somewhere out there waiting

_… We awaited our voyage to England eagerly, taking leave from our parents with promises of much correspondence and visits in the future. My husband and I were quite happy to start a new life in England—our eldest child was now old enough to take the journey without any concerns and we were eager to expand our family in our new home._

_It was during this voyage, all those weeks we spent shut up together on a rather constricted vessel, that our friend‘s advances started to become more uncomfortable and insistent. Space being as limited as it was, there was not a lot of time that my husband and I did not spend together, but the few moments that we were apart, our friend would approach me rather aggressively, giving increasingly heavy-handed hints of his interest that I continued to politely ignore. This went on until he finally just stated outright his intentions with me, or what he wanted me to believe his intentions were, and attempted to entice me with promises of the good life he could offer me in England, the fine gifts he would buy for me, the pleasures he could show me and other things that I would not want to repeat for you to read._

_The time for subtlety being evidently over, I told him in no uncertain terms that I was quite happy with my husband, that I would not under any circumstances reconsider the state of my marriage, that I felt sorry to disappoint his hopes but that he should kindly refrain from speaking on the matter any further if he wished to remain my friend…._

* * *

_… twenty-one years later ..._

It had been a fair day by the shore in Somersetshire when the usher was brought into the village.

Victor remembered it well, it having been the first day in some time that anything out of the ordinary occurred in the sleepy fishing village where he lived. Victor had whiled away the hours of the day in his usual manner, spending the morning with his tutor over his books, reluctant and distractible as ever, waiting for the hour to come when he was released into the sunshine. Then, when old Yakov had finally had enough of torturing him over his history and his Latin, Victor hurried down to the shipyard, his loyal dog Makkachin close at his heel, eager to continue the work on his little yacht he‘d been building with his own two hands.

Hard and happily at work with the journeymen laying the deck of his little vessel, Victor had not expected the rest of his day to go any different than usual: he firmly expected to work away the rest of the afternoon until the sun was nearing the horizon, then to return home to where his mother was patiently waiting for him and take his supper with her, and perhaps Yakov, too, if he was of a mood to keep them company. Then they would spend the evening together in the drawing room, perhaps reading or making music or, if he could tempt them to some activity still, playing at cards. Then they would retire to bed, and the next morning with the sun‘s rise, the whole cycle would repeat itself, and again, and again.

Much as Victor loved his mother and respected his tutor, who had always taught him well, the thought was tedious to him to spend the rest of his young life in that same Somersetshire village, with those same stout and decent Englishmen for his company and nothing unusual ever passing in living memory.

It would be his greatest wish, he thought as he was laying out the planks for his deck, to one day leave this ever-same remote corner of the English countryside on this very little vessel of his that he was building with only Makkachin by his side, and explore what the rest of the world had to offer to him.

He‘d never really been outside his little village, had never gone further than a trip to London when he was a lad, and another to Oxford and Cambridge when Yakov had been trying to tempt him to college. But from what he had learned from his tutor and read in books and newspapers, there was a world out there full of different people and cultures, different climates and landscapes. He couldn‘t wait to see it with his own eyes.

But for now he had to content himself with working on his ship with his good dog by his side, losing himself in daydreams all the while, conjuring up images of all the places he wants to go. He’d begin with those closest to him, the endless rolling hills of Ireland, or the wild highlands and deep lochs of Scotland, and then he’d stray farther, farther: he’d discover opera and ballet in Paris, stroll through the endless vineyards of Tuscany, discover the ruins of old Athens. But for now, he was confined to spending his evenings quietly with his dear mother, who was no longer young and in good health, and would not bear to travel.

This particular day, however, went rather differently from what he had been expecting, from the moment that an idle boy from the neighbourhood came running to the shipyard to share with them the latest piece of gossip that had run through the little village. There was talk, he told them, of a stranger having been brought into the village after he was found in the fields nearby, swooned in the delirium of a fever. 

“They’re taking him into the inn now”, he said to Victor and the journeymen gathered around him as they paused in their work, “and they sent for the doctor, too, to take a look at him. Right curious looking fellow, is what I been told, certainly not from around these parts.”

Victor edged a little closer to the boy, setting down the plank he’d been working on, eager to hear more.

“What do you mean, not from around these parts? And is he really very ill?”

The boy shrugged. “Don’t ask me, haven’t seen him myself now, have I? He’s a foreigner is what I’m guessing. And he’s really out of it they said. In a swoon, or something. But I’m not a doctor, me.”

A foreigner, thought Victor. It didn’t surprise him, then, that the stranger was the talk of the town immediately. Foreigners were not seen often in the village, at least not the ones who actually looked the part. Victor himself had heard many a comment about his family name--never malicious, mind you, merely teasing and sometimes thoughtless--and he, at least, didn’t look much different from any other Englishman. 

“They’re taking him to the inn, you said?”, he asked, “Did they get his name? Is someone looking for him, do you think?”

The boy laughed at his insistent questions. “How should I know? I only know what they told me and they haven’t told me anything. Go find out yourself if you’re so eager!”

And with that he walked away and left them to their own devices. Victor could not contain his curiosity, however, and the sun was already creeping down toward the horizon, so he put away his tools, covered up his unfinished vessel, bid a good evening to the journeymen and got on his way to the inn to find out more about the stranger himself.

He arrived at the inn at the same time as Yakov, who, in addition to being the retired schoolmaster, was also the town‘s magistrate, and had therefore been called upon to judge on how to handle the affair with the stranger. Victor crept along with him to the room the stranger had been brought into, which was already occupied by the doctor and the innkeeper as well, struggling to calm their charge.

The stranger, having woken up as he was being brought to the inn, was in a delirious panic, struggling against the hold of the innkeeper, shouting and wailing incoherent noises of distress, making it exceedingly difficult for the doctor to examine him. 

Victor shuddered to hear him, his distress so tangible in his voice, the way he struggled against their hold on him making something uncomfortable clench in his gut, despite his knowledge that it was only for the man’s own good. Eager to help and offer his services where possible, Victor stepped forward to help the innkeeper hold down the man so that the doctor could administer a sedative to calm his muddled mind. Hopefully then the man would be able to find some peace and rest.

Stepping closer to the bedside and grabbing ahold of the man‘s arm and shoulder on one side as the innkeeper took the other, Victor had the opportunity to take a closer look at the stranger that had been brought into their town. The most striking thing to Victor was with how much vicious strength he was resisting their grip; the man had a narrow frame, thin but lithe in a way that spoke of a habit of physical work, the definition of the muscles in his thighs and arms clear through his tunic and his trousers as they stood out in his exertion. His shoes were kicked off and his feet in their socks were curling, toes grasping at the frame of the bed with unusual control. 

The second thing Victor noticed were his features. The man‘s dark hair and dark eyes gave him somewhat of a foreign look, though it was impossible to get a good look at his face, which was constantly turning and contorting in pain and distress. His hair was on the longer side, almost reaching to his shoulders, and was matted with dust and straw. So were his clothes, not surprisingly if he really had been found in a field out of his senses. All things taken together, though, he did not produce a good first impression on the persons present. At least when the doctor finally managed to administer his sedative to the man and he slackened in their grasp, so did his face, smoothing out to something more peaceful, and Victor noticed that, in spite of his skin pale and cheeks sunken from illness and the irregular stubble of dark hair on his jaw, and the lines of distress still visible as faint ghosts in his features, he was rather young, perhaps no more than Victor‘s own age. 

He couldn’t help but wonder what had brought this man in such a position, how it came that he had no one to look out for him in his illness. Had he wandered away from his family, his home, in his delirium? Were there people out there desperately searching for him? Had he been perhaps surprised by the illness while traveling and not found a chance to seek help anywhere before the fever overtook him? No matter what the case, Victor found himself feeling with the stranger and felt the strange desire to help him in some way.

While the doctor was examining the sick man, Yakov, as the magistrate, took it upon himself to examine the man‘s effects for any clue to his identity and possible relations or friends that could be alerted to his whereabouts. The search found little: in the small knapsack that the innkeeper produced that had evidently been found near the man where he had lain in the field, there was no more than a small purse containing a few coins, a little flute carved from wood, a comb of bone that may once have been fine but was now dull with age, and two books. The first was a copy of Goethe’s _Faust_ in the original German and the second Petronius’ _Satyricon_ in the original Latin. Inscribed in the first page of both books was the first clue to the man‘s identity that they could find, the initials Y.K.

After these possessions had been viewed and set aside, Yakov set about searching the man‘s pockets as respectfully as he could, and under Victor‘s curious eyes he finally uncovered another clue in the breast pocket of the man‘s shirt. It was a letter, carelessly folded and a little worn from the elements, and it was this letter that finally brought some light into the man‘s situation. 

The contents of the letter were in the character of a reference; they identified the writer of the letter as a schoolmaster in Somersetshire, and attested to the man having worked for a short amount of time as an usher in said schoolmaster‘s school. When the man began to show the first symptoms of his illness, the letter admitted, he was dismissed from his position and set adrift, for fear his illness might be catching and could infect the pupils and teachers at the school. The usher‘s conduct and his work ethic during his employment, the letter continued, had been impeccable and no complaint was to be made of him, and the schoolmaster wished him a rapid recovery and success in his future endeavours. The letter was not signed with the schoolmaster‘s name, nor was the location of the school identified more closely, no doubt in order to escape any ramifications for their heartless conduct in case their usher should perish in his illness. The letter did, however, identify the usher himself, thereby connecting him to the initials found in the books, as one Yuuri Katsuki.

After the reference had been read, Victor looked upon the usher, still restless in his sleep, with pity and consternation. How cruel it was of his employers to leave him to fend for himself in his infirm state! How singularly helpless and friendless the usher must have felt as he was cast out in his fever. Victor was glad he had found his way to people who would look after him more selflessly, and determined in that moment that he would personally keep an eye on the usher‘s recovery to make sure that all his needs were taken care of. 

After a while of the doctor‘s quietly working and Yakov talking to the innkeeper about the keeping of the usher, Yakov and Victor took their leave from the inn and headed back to their homes together. Yakov was still grumbling as they walked, wondering aloud how the cost for the doctor and room and board for the usher should be covered. 

“You can put that worry out of your mind, Yakov!”, Victor interrupted his train of thought easily. “It is all taken care of!”

“It is?”, Yakov replied, regarding him with a suspicious glance.

“Certainly! I settled it all just now. I shall cover the cost of the poor usher‘s recovery myself, I already let the innkeeper and the doctor know to address their terms, when they come, to me.”

The expression on Yakov‘s already wrinkled and sullen face darkened at his words.

“Vitya”, he chided his student, „Will you ever stop acting before you think, foolish boy? As much as I commend your kindness, you cannot just give away your hard-earned savings for a stranger! And what will you do if the cost exceeds whatever savings you may have? How will you make up the difference?”

“Never worry yourself about that, Yakov!”, Victor replied, “If it should happen that I am a few pounds short, I am not too proud to go around with a hat to make up the difference. Taking care of the sick and infirm is the right and decent thing to do, don‘t you agree, for me and all the people in this village.”

Yakov sighed.

“Your noble instincts do you credit, Vitya. But what will you do when the next wretched fellow comes along who needs help, or, God forbid, someone of your own acquaintance falls ill, and you‘ve spent all your savings on a stranger in a village inn? Your charitable deeds are all well and good, but perhaps you need to discern the objects of your charity a little more carefully.”

Victor waved his words away with a laugh.

“Nonsense, Yakov! That is then, and this is now! Besides, I cannot imagine a man more deserving of kindness than that wretch we just left behind at that inn. Look at how heartless he has been treated by his fellow creatures! No, no—he‘s a capital fellow, I have no doubts about it, and he shall have my help whether you like it or not.”

It seemed that Yakov understood it was senseless to argue with him, because he held his tongue and said no more on the matter. When they reached the point where they had to part ways, he bid Victor goodnight, though Victor asked him if he didn‘t want to come and have dinner with him and his mother, as he was wont to do on occasion. This night, however, Yakov begged off, citing a need to contemplate and quiet his mind after the unusual events of the day. So Victor went on by himself, reaching his home quickly and losing no time in telling his mother all about the exciting news that the day had brought.


	3. empty smiles can never hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took the better part of a fortnight for the stranger with the unusual name of Yuuri Katsuki to recover. Victor spent as much of his time as he could spare by his bedside, making sure he was well looked after and gazing at his face, now smooth in his sleep, now distressed with his fever, wondering at the circumstances of this man‘s life that had brought him to their village in such a strange manner.
> 
> He was excited when the man finally began to regain his senses, eager to talk to him and find out more about where he came from and what type of a person he was. Strangers came so seldom to their little village, and it was rare that Victor got the chance to talk to someone who didn't have the same routine, did not see the same sights and meet the same people as he did every day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's go with Regency Week Day 5: Falling in Love Over Societal Borders.
> 
> Again thank you to my wonderful betas, [Zjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose) and [Harky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harky21) 💜💜💜

_… I felt sorry to disappoint his hopes but that he should kindly refrain from speaking on the matter any further if he wished to remain my friend. To this day I am sure he would have pursued the matter further, had not in that moment my husband returned to our company, cutting our conversation short._

_It was the next day that is the day that shall be forever burned into my memory. The day that I shall never forget even if I should live to be a hundred, the day that still makes me shiver at the mere thought of it. The day that, as I am writing this letter, makes the pen shake in my fingers at the prospect of having to detail its events here for you to read. Nevertheless, I shall continue on writing, for the sake of you, my children, whose lives and happiness are so much more important to me these days than my own comfort is._

_Here are the gruesome events of that day, then, as they took place…._

* * *

It took the better part of a fortnight for the stranger with the unusual name of Yuuri Katsuki to recover. Victor spent as much of his time as he could spare by his bedside, making sure he was well looked after and gazing at his face, now smooth in his sleep, now distressed with his fever, wondering at the circumstances of this man‘s life that had brought him to their village in such a strange manner.

He was excited when the man finally began to regain his senses, eager to talk to him and find out more about where he came from and what type of a person he was. Strangers came so seldom to their little village, and it was rare that Victor got the chance to talk to someone who didn't have the same routine, did not see the same sights and meet the same people as he did every day. But at first, even when the stranger was awake, he was still disoriented and his mind unclear, and his strange surroundings seemed to confuse and distress him, and he would soon sink back into sleep.

It disappointed Victor, eager as he was, but he had long since decided that he would employ patience, difficult though it may be. As such, it was a pleasant surprise when he one day came in to check on the usher after his morning‘s lessons and found him sitting up in his bed, a tray on his knees and eating his lunch. 

Being in his early twenties, Victor had by all rights long since passed the age where a young man would usually be taught by a tutor. But he had expressed no interest whatsoever in attending university along with other young gentlemen of his class when he reached the appropriate age, preferring to continue spending his time and energy in the shipyard as he had done since he was a youth. His mother, who was really just as eager to keep him close to her rather than send him away to school, had easily agreed on the compromise of having Victor continue to be taught by Yakov for as long as the old schoolmaster had something to teach. This, Victor feared, would be very long indeed, since the old gentleman was very knowledgeable in many subjects, and so Victor continued to take his lessons in History and Latin, Russian and Literature every day until luncheon, before he went down to the seaside for the rest of the day.

Usually, Victor found his lessons a tedious necessity, being a firm believer that there were few things the books could teach him that he wouldn't much rather learn by quitting the dusty old study and going out into the world himself. But his mother was insistent that he should get a good education despite his disinterest in academia, and so he bore it to please her. Right now, however, he didn't mind it so much, since it gave him the chance to look in on his charge at the inn, on the way from his home to the shipyard. 

Thus it was that Victor walked in on that unusual sight of the usher sitting up in bed, appearing quite hale over his meal. Certainly, his hair was still dirty and in disarray, and the strain of his illness and the lack of proper food was visible still in the paleness of his skin and his sunken cheeks, but beyond that the man was clearly on the mend; his eyes were bright and focused, and he appeared to have a healthy appetite.

When he noticed Victor standing in the door after a few moments, his countenance changed subtly, though visibly: his muscles tensed and he pulled up his shoulders like he was anticipating a blow, and a hint of distrust entered his bright gaze. Victor strode into the room with a grin on his face, determined to put the man at ease.

“You‘re awake! How marvellous! How are you feeling, my dear fellow? I trust they've been looking after you well here?”

The man nodded cautiously, still following Victor with his gaze as Victor took his customary place by his bedside, his luncheon for the moment forgotten.

“Capital! Here, don‘t let me keep you from your meal, I‘m sure you need it after all this. My name is Victor Nikiforov, though please, do call me Victor, won‘t you? No need for any formality, don‘t you think?”

Some of the tension seemed to leave the stranger‘s frame at Victor‘s words, and his eyes widened, still fixed on Victor‘s face. 

“Oh”, he said, and Victor was caught a little off guard by the smooth, soft tone of his voice when he wasn't shouting in distress, though it was still a little rough in his throat. “Victor Nikiforov, did you say?”

The man hesitated, picking once more at his food, though not with the same enthusiasm he’d had before. “They told me you've been looking after me ever since I was brought here, even paying for my medical expenses. I owe you a great debt of gratitude, Mr Nikiforov, that I‘m not sure I could ever repay.” He bowed his head, eyes cast down.

“I will, of course, pay you back for your expenses. I have already asked for pen and ink so that I can write to my savings bank and reimburse you, but the kindness you have shown a wretched stranger with no connection to yourself humbles me.”

Victor laughed, a little puzzled at the stranger‘s earnestness. 

“Don‘t mention it, my dear chap! I merely did what any decent and honest fellow would do, I am sure. Please don‘t concern yourself about the money, your recovery is all the reimbursement I need.”

The stranger shook his head.

“I could never accept that offer, though it is kindly meant—my apologies, Mr Nikiforov. I am determined to repay my debt, at least the monetary one, in as short a time as I can. I am not certain I could ever repay the debt in kindness that I owe, but I shall nevertheless try as I can.”

It did not appear as though the stranger would back down from his conviction, the determined glint in his eyes gave that much away. His insistence was somewhat mystifying to Victor--it was only a little money, and it had been no great inconvenience for him to look after him during his recovery. But he didn’t see any point in arguing further.

“Well then, if it shall quiet your mind, I will of course accept your repayment”, Victor said, “though I assure you it is quite unnecessary. Yuuri — surely, I can call you Yuuri? I feel like I rather know you already! And you should really call me Victor, I insist on it. There is not need to stick to such formality, is there? Anyways, Yuuri, you should really not worry yourself about this, but rather focus on regaining your strength.”

Yuuri regarded him with a long and puzzled gaze, as if he had never seen the like of Victor in all his life. 

“I humbly thank you, uhm… Victor”, he finally replied, “I would not expect to be met with kindness like this in a situation such as mine.”

Victor nodded in understanding.

“And what a situation it is! And I fear we may only know the half of it. We only got what little we know from that reference of yours—you will forgive us, I‘m sure, for going through your effects, we were rather pressed on finding out who you were. It did not tell us much beyond that you were so heartlessly sent out by that damned schoolmaster… Mind you, if he had proved less of a coward and signed his name, I should have liked to go there myself and let him know what I think of behaviour such as that!”

He stopped and cleared his throat, forcing himself to put aside his irritation. This was not the time or the place.

“Be that as it may”, he finally continued, “we could not find out anything more about you besides that circumstance and your rather unusual name, which I must really ask you about another time, but for now—won‘t you tell me more about how you came to be here in our village?”

When Victor had ended his deluge of words, Yuuri was still staring at him, looking puzzled still, and rather a little overwhelmed. With a laugh that sounded uneasy in his own ears, Victor picked up the conversation once more. 

“I‘m sorry, do not mind all my questions, my dear friend. I am just terribly curious about circumstances as strange as yours are—you may imagine that things like this do not often occur in such a small place. I could hardly imagine that anyone should treat their fellow men as cruelly as that. But look at me talking again! I should really let you answer my questions, shouldn't I, if I‘m so eager to hear?”

This time, when Victor trailed off, Yuuri gave him a small, hesitant smile.

“I don‘t mind it, really”, he said, his voice still just as soft and careful, “if I am to be quite honest, though, I do not recall much of how I came to be here. I do remember my situation as an usher, of course, and I remember how the first symptoms of the illness were starting to trouble me. I could not tell you how long ago this was—time has rather lost its meaning in the fever. My memory of being sent away from the school with a letter of some kind—which, I assume, is the reference you mentioned earlier—is already mixed up with strange dreams and moments of blankness that were no doubt caused by the illness. And then…” Yuuri‘s eyebrows knit together in concentration and he stared ahead at his own hands that were always moving in his lap, now holding fast to the tray, now moving around the cutlery or touching the plates, „I cannot recall much of what happened next. I must have wandered for some time, but all I can remember are a few miserable moments. I recall I boarded a train at one point with a single-minded purpose in my head, though where I was bound and what that purpose was is too much to ask. I remember being carried somewhere, which I assume was when I was brought in here. The next clear moment in my mind is the one when I woke up here in this inn.“

Yuuri did not seem to be distressed by the events he recounted; rather, he told them with a singular indifference and evenness that puzzled Victor. He reached out and laid his hand on the usher‘s arm in a gesture meant for comfort, and was surprised when he flinched away from his touch.

„Ah“, Victor said, „I apologise if that was too familiar a gesture. I do so feel for you, having gone through all that suffering by yourself. I would not wish it on anyone.“

Again Yuuri gave him that small smile, something in it that Victor couldn't quite read, before he spoke. „Do not think on it, Victor“, he said. „It was not so bad. There are people, I am sure, who have lived through worse. I was lucky to be found by kind people, and besides, I am recovered, and what does suffering matter if it is in the past?“

At this, Victor brightened once more.

„Quite right! Let us not dwell on the past now! You seem a fellow quite after my own heart, so let us instead look toward the splendid friendship that I feel sure we shall build! Here, I meant to ask about your name, didn't I?“

„Oh, well, I don‘t…“, Yuuri began, but Victor interrupted him before he could get any further. 

„Oh, blast it!“, he exclaimed, pulling out his watch from his pocket, „I do apologise for interrupting our conversation, my dear chap, but I‘m afraid I rather forgot, I am needed at the shipyard! I was only meant to stop here for a minute, but seeing you up had me quite distracted. I have to take my leave, but I will return as soon as my day‘s work is done, and we can pick it right back up, what do you say?“

„Please“, Yuuri said, looking down at his hands still, „don‘t let me keep you from your work, then. You have important matters to attend to, and I don‘t mind waiting.“

„There‘s a good chap“, Victor said, already getting to his feet, „you just rest a little more and I will be back sooner than you will know!“ 

With that he dashed out the door and down the stairs, already rehearsing with half his mind the excuses he would give to the journeymen down at the shipyard, while the other was occupied in thinking about all the questions he wanted to ask Yuuri when he came back.

* * *

When Victor returned in the evening, the afternoon at work having dragged on unusually long given that he usually so enjoyed working on his little yacht, he encountered another surprise at the inn.

When he returned to Yuuri‘s room after a brief knock on the door, he at first believed he had happened upon the wrong room, so changed was the man sitting now up in bed.

Yuuri had obviously had a bath, the dust and grime and straw washed off his skin. He was wearing clean clothes that were obviously too large for him, his patchy stubble had been shaved, and his hair was oiled back from his face, curling gently around his ears.

He looked up in surprise when Victor entered, as if he had not really expected him to return. 

“Victor!”, he said, another smile pulling on his lips, still a little hesitant, still a little small, but oh, how different was the effect from the one Victor had seen hours earlier.

His deep brown eyes were looking at Victor brightly and attentively, his lips curving into a soft line that gave his lean, sunken face a rounded and healthy look. He looked, Victor had to admit as he stumbled to a halt just inside the door, rather handsome. 

“Ah”, he said, taking a few moments to recover from the unexpected change, “I—… it‘s good to see you‘re feeling better, Yuuri.” He stepped a little further into the room once he‘d regained control over his tongue. “I hope you don‘t mind—I suppose I should have asked beforehand, but I brought my dog along. I left her outside earlier today, since I only anticipated staying a few minutes, but I don‘t like leaving her alone for too long. I hope you do not mind dogs?”

Already Makkachin had wormed her way past Victor‘s legs and was trotting toward the bed, her tail wagging and panting happily, to meet the stranger. Victor had brought her before while Yuuri was still senseless, but she had not yet seen him awake.

As she approached Yuuri, sniffing curiously at any part of him that she could reach, Yuuri shook his head, his smile gaining once more that distant quality it had had in the afternoon.

“No, no, I don‘t mind at all”, he murmured, already holding out a hand for Makkachin to sniff and looking down at her with a soft but pained expression etched on his face. “Dogs are wonderful creatures, the kindest creatures, really, that I've had the luck of meeting in this life of mine. You did quite right to bring her in and not leave her to wait outside by herself for too long. Do feel free to bring her anytime.”

Victor grinned and stepped a little closer to the bed where his newest and his oldest friend were getting acquainted. 

“Wonderful! I do agree with you, and it speaks well in your favour that you should think so. A fellow who loves dogs, I always say, is sure to be the best fellow on earth.”

Yuuri pulled up his shoulders a little, running his hands through Makkachin‘s fur, which she accepted with eager wags of her tail.

“I don‘t know about that. She is a creature of beauty though, isn't she? What‘s her name?”

“Her name is Makkachin”, Victor said and regarded Yuuri as his eyes softened when he looked down at the poodle, his throat moving visibly as he swallowed.

Reaching out with a hesitant hand, Yuuri ran his fingers through her fur. 

“It‘s a pleasure to meet you, Makkachin”, he said softly, “you‘re a very good young lady, aren’t you?”

When Makkachin panted happily as if in assent, Yuuri looked up.

“How long have you had her?”

Victor grinned, never tired of talking about his favourite companion, and strode closer to once more take his customary seat next to Yuuri‘s bed. 

“A few years now, since I was a boy of sixteen.”

Yuuri nodded. “She‘s such a beautiful one, and such an unusual breed. How did you come by her?”

Victor promptly launched into the story with enthusiasm, not leaving out a single detail, and soon they had whiled away the hours of the evening in the blink of an eye, never running out of conversation. Victor took his leave reluctantly as the night grew too late; he had enjoyed himself immensely, and found Yuuri a more pleasant companion by the minute. But it wouldn't do to worry his mother, so he left Yuuri with his promise of a return the next day, and Yuuri bore both his leave and his promise with humble thanks and wished him a good night.

It wasn't until he was strolling through the village back to his home, Makkachin loping along at his side, that he realised he had barely learned a thing about Yuuri all night—not about his name, as he had asked, nor about anything else that concerned him, his relations or where he came from.

Yuuri had listened so patiently and had asked with so much interest about Victor himself, his life, his family, his interests, that Victor had not noticed at all how little Yuuri had in turn volunteered about himself. Nor had Victor asked—he felt bad about it now, Yuuri must think him so self-absorbed—so he determined to do better the next day.

All that he had learned about Yuuri tonight was that he shared two of Victor‘s biggest passions: The first was his love for dogs, evident in his interest in and obvious affection for Makkachin. The second was Victor‘s love of sailing. When Victor had mentioned the building of his little yacht, Yuuri had revealed that he had been employed at sea for a time of his life, and he asked at once about the vessel Victor was building. And for a long while they had lost themselves in talking shop, trading back and forth in experiences and sharing opinions about materials and methods. On anything going beyond that, however, Yuuri had remained silent. 

Shaking his head about himself, Victor looked down at Makkachin by his side. “I really should be more mindful of my conversation partner, shouldn't I, Makka?”, he asked, “It wouldn't do for Yuuri to think me selfish. I‘ll do better tomorrow.”

With that thought he reached his home where his mother was already waiting, and in telling her all about how his day had gone, he all but forgot his worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any theories or speculations, feel free to share them in the comments! I love to read them! 😁😁😁
> 
> See you next friday for chapter 4 💖


	4. the truth I closely guard within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then there was Victor.
> 
> Victor, who seemed so determined to make a friend of him, circumstances be damned.
> 
> Victor who was so open and enthusiastic, who was so curious about Yuuri and yet never seemed to spare a thought for his status. 
> 
> Victor, who carried the name Nikiforov.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Zjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose) and [Harky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harky21) for beta reading 💜
> 
> (sorry if any of you had trouble/got double notifs for this one, I had to repost it OTL)

_… Our ship, a sturdy and reliable vessel named the_ Stammi Vicino, _was beset by a storm, a violent tempest of the seas and the wind, which tossed her about rather violently. It required all hands on deck for the sailors, and, due to the turmoil, there had been some upset among the cargo stowed below deck, boxes and barrels tumbling about and blocking the way to some of the cabins. The sailors all being engaged in guiding the ship through the storm, some of the capable hands among the passengers were called upon to clear up the cargo and reopen the way toward the cabins._

_Thus it was that my husband and our friend were engaged in work while I remained in the cabin, the tossing about of the ship having beset me with some nausea, though I was not usually in the habit of eschewing physical labour. Our child had been left in the ship‘s nursery along with the other passengers‘ children aboard, to be calmed there by the nurses and nannies._

_I was resting in the cabin on my own, trying to calm my vertigo, when, without so much as a knock at the door, my friend came inside. I sat up from where I had been resting, thinking that perhaps he brought some news from the crew, but he just closed and bolted the door silently behind him…._

* * *

When Yuuri woke up the next morning, nothing had changed.

He was still in that same small inn in that same small Somersetshire village surrounded by people who were strangers to him. The last, at least, was not that much of an unusual circumstance in his life, but this did prove that he was, in fact, recovering, and that the events of the day before were not another strange vision conjured up by his fever.

God knew he‘d had plenty of those in the recent past, delirious in his fever to the point of being unable to distinguish his dreams from reality. His sister Mari had visited him in his waking dreams, and he had seen Vicchan running by his feet again. He‘d even been back, for a time, in Minako‘s dance studio, under her watchful gaze and the strict attention of her stick. It was, therefore, no stranger a vision to be faced with a man by the strangely haunting name of Victor Nikiforov, whose dog was a somewhat larger mirror image of Vicchan.

But no, it appeared this had not been one of his fever dreams; Yuuri was still here in the same room of the inn, and Victor had promised to return today.

He really couldn't remember much of how he had got there—the fever had muddled up his mind, draining his memory of the last three weeks. He remembered his distress at being cast out, but he‘d already been barely able to form a coherent thought at that point. He remembered thinking that he needed to go somewhere, somewhere he was looked after and could recover from his illness—except that there was no such place for him to go, and so he had wandered aimlessly. 

He‘d slept in the moss and under bushes, the way he‘d once been used to, and with every day his mind took further leave of itself until there was merely an interval of blankness interspersed with haunting, miserable images, and then he‘d woken up again in the inn.

And then there was Victor.

Victor, who had taken care of him so kindly, so unquestioningly. Victor, whose eyes had never looked at Yuuri with any kind of suspicion, from the first moment onward. Yuuri had never known that kind of trust.

Yuuri did not resent the suspicion—he understood it well enough. There was nothing in his circumstances that inspired trust, he certainly had no respectable family or friends to vouch for him. Even more than that, there had always been something about him, something in his nature, that made people suspicious of him. Some quality about him always seemed to repel them, and Yuuri was sure they were well within their rights to avoid him. 

He‘d avoid his own company, if he could.

And then there was Victor.

Victor, who seemed so determined to make a friend of him, circumstances be damned.

Victor who was so open and enthusiastic, who was so curious about Yuuri and yet never seemed to spare a thought for his status. 

Victor, who carried the name Nikiforov.

Yuuri had barely believed it when he had first introduced himself by that name, had not expected to be faced with it here, of all places. And yet he had not misheard.

He‘d asked Victor about his family as insistently as he‘d dared, but it was of no help to him. Victor had readily volunteered what information he possessed about his family: A father he had none, since he had died when Victor was just a young lad, too young to even remember him. He‘d lived with his mother here in this village all his life, and though there were some relations on his mother‘s side, they were not on good terms and so Victor had never met.

That was all Victor knew of family.

He spoke of his mother freely, though, extensively and with obvious affection, as well as of his tutor who had given him his education since he was a boy. It was a small circle, but it was clear he loved them dearly. Yuuri had listened to him with burning curiosity and a painful pang of wistfulness and been careful not to mention a family of his own.

Since Yuuri was not yet strong enough to leave his bed, an employee of the inn brought a tray with breakfast to him, as well as a fresh bowl of water so he could wash himself. Yuuri gave him his thanks, but the boy retreated with barely a grunt of acknowledgement. 

With a sigh, Yuuri set about cleaning himself up as well as he could. It appeared the inn‘s workers were not too thrilled about being tasked to look after him by the magistrate, as Victor had told him last night, regardless of the fact that all expenses were covered by Victor. 

As promised, Yuuri had sent off to his savings bank for his meagre savings to pay Victor back; hopefully proving that he was not entirely without means would go a way to reconcile the people in this village to him, but he didn‘t expect to hear back for at least another day.

Until then, he‘d bear the resentment quietly, as he always did. The doctor was scheduled to appear soon to check on him again, and Victor had promised his return for noon, so at least there was something for Yuuri to look forward to.

* * *

The first thing Victor did when he returned to the inn was ask after Yuuri‘s health. He seemed pleased when Yuuri informed him that, according to the doctor, he was continuing well on the way to recovery. 

When Victor subsequently returned to his seat by Yuuri‘s bed, the afternoon went much like the previous evening had—easy conversation flowed between them, mostly initiated by Victor, but happily reciprocated by Yuuri.

Yuuri was surprised how easy it was for him to converse with Victor. He was not a forthcoming person by nature, but Victor‘s easy enthusiasm was catching, and Yuuri‘s gratefulness warmed his body through like a furnace, making him want nothing more than to see Victor pleased. And it seemed to please Victor, for some unfathomable reason, to speak with Yuuri.

They talked more about Victor‘s yacht, and thence went on to the journeys that Victor was hoping to take once the vessel was completed, all the places he dreamt of visiting. It was endearing to see the gleam in Victor‘s eyes when he spoke of those far off places, his broad gestures of enthusiasm. The wide, genuine smile that curved his lips into a heart shape. 

Of the places he mentioned that Yuuri happened to have seen before on his voyages, he found that Victor had a rather romantic view. He himself had never seen much of Genoa and Brest, being mostly confined to the ships he‘d been employed on and the ports, but in his memory the cities were much less beautiful, the people much less forthcoming than Victor seemed to imagine them to be.

But Yuuri didn't have the heart to discourage him; too dear was it to him to see him so happy. So he offered some stories of his own from those places, all true, but a little bit trimmed of their unpleasantness. At least the rough manner between sailors Victor was already used to from the shipyard, so Yuuri did not have to hold himself back on that account. And Victor listened eagerly to everything he had to say, every word that left his lips.

It made Yuuri feel a little strange, like a tingling sensation under his skin; no one had ever really listened to him before. His words had never mattered to anyone, not when he was a scrawny kid without a family, not when he was just another pair of hands on a ship, barely even when he had been an usher at the school. It worried him; every minute now, he felt, he would be punished for speaking out of turn. But Victor just let him go on, listening intently.

Yuuri still left the bulk of the conversation to Victor wherever he could, but he nonetheless ended up speaking more than he could remember ever doing in a single day since the last time he was with Mari.

Victor stayed through the afternoon, foregoing his work at the shipyard for the day, though Yuuri had assured him it wasn't necessary. He also offered to stay and take his supper with Yuuri, but Yuuri insisted on letting him go and take a proper supper with his family. He was sorry to see Victor go, but he knew he had no right to monopolise him. It was a solace to him, though, small as it was, that Victor seemed just about as reluctant to take his leave.

* * *

In the meantime, elsewhere in the village, Mrs. Nikiforov sent for her good friend and her son‘s tutor, Yakov Feltsman, to speak to him on an urgent matter.

* * *

The next day, Victor stopped by again for a little while after luncheon before going back to his work.

He appeared to be a little more serious this time, not overflowing with his usual enthusiasm, and Yuuri was concerned to see him.

“How do you do today, Victor?”, Yuuri asked as Victor sat down in his chair, apparently lost in thought and not inclined to start a conversation.

“Splendid, just splendid”, Victor murmured absent-mindedly, staring into empty space for a few moments longer before he looked up to meet Yuuri‘s eyes.

“Say, Yuuri, won‘t you tell me about your family?”, he asked suddenly, “I feel like I've been terribly selfish in only talking about me. I still know barely a thing about you.”

Yuuri stiffened a little in his bed, his stomach fluttering with nerves.

“What‘s brought this on?”, he asked, “I assure you, I've been thoroughly enjoying our conversations, you need not be concerned about me.”

Victor‘s brow furrowed slightly as he gazed at Yuuri.

“Won‘t you indulge me, Yuuri? Call it curiosity if you will. I want to learn more about you.”

Yuuri avoided his eyes, clenching his hands painfully in his lap.

“I really don‘t know what there is to say, I‘m afraid. I have no family.”

“None?” A hint of amusement was laced in Victor‘s voice, “Why, surely you must have a mother and a father, at least?”

Unwittingly, Yuuri‘s face pulled into a grimace of pain. “I suppose I must, though I wish you‘d excuse me from speaking of them. They died when I was a child, and I‘d really rather—” He cleared his throat, his voice breaking on the last syllables. “My apologies.”

In truth he did not recall much of his parents, not in clear memories that he could recount. There were impressions and emotions of his early childhood, and he knew they had been kind people. But it was the memory of his sister‘s hand in his, warm and firm and steady, as they stood at their parents‘ grave, that clenched down his throat so painfully that he could speak no more.

Victor had sat up in his chair, leaning closer to Yuuri.

“No”, he said, “it is on me to apologise. I did not mean to bring up painful memories. I merely… I‘m sorry, Yuuri.”

Yuuri shook his head, attempting to swallow down the lump in this throat. 

“No, Victor, please. Do not concern yourself, I‘m quite alright. It has been a long time since. But I am afraid that is all I can tell you of my relations: I no longer have any.”

“I understand”, Victor said, clearing his throat and fidgeting quite uncomfortably in his chair. After a while he spoke again. “Ah, will you… will you tell me about your name then? Katsuki? I've never heard its like! Where does it come from?”

Yuuri forced a small smile onto his lips. “I shouldn't wonder that you’ve never heard it, it‘s not exactly a usual name here. From what I understand, it‘s from the colonies of my parents’ origin. Which colonies these were, or what it means, is more than I can tell you. I simply know that I was born in England.”

Victor nodded thoughtfully. “And, ah… where did you say you lived before your parents‘ passing?”

Yuuri observed how Victor‘s usually so open and direct gaze was now clinging to the linens of his bed, and he frowned.

“Victor?”, he asked, “Why do I get the impression that you are interrogating me?”

Victor flinched under his question and looked up at him sheepishly.

“Ah, my apologies, Yuuri. I am being rather clumsy about this, am I not? The truth is…”, he sighed, running a hand through his fine silver hair. “The truth is, when I told my mother about the splendid new friend I‘d made, she was rather reluctant to share my enthusiasm. I do hope you will not hold this against her, she is always very concerned about me. She told me I should avoid such close contact with someone who is a virtual stranger, and whose respectability we cannot be sure of.” 

He grimaced and finally looked up to meet Yuuri’s eyes again. 

“I‘ll tell you honest, I told her to blast all that! I don‘t care a fig about respectability, whether you have it or not. Good old common sense tells me you‘re a good man, and that‘s that. But…”, he lifted his hands, a little helplessly, “she is my mother and I do not want to distress her unnecessarily. So, perhaps, I thought, perhaps it would be possible for me to enquire about your so-called respectability so as to satisfy my mother‘s worries. Except, I believe, subtlety is not my strong suit, is it?”

Yuuri couldn't quite help the smile that tugged on his lips. 

“I do not believe it is.”

Victor was still looking sheepish, chewing on his bottom lip, but already a grin was starting to spread on his face, too.

“Will you forgive me, Yuuri? Respectability be damned, I‘d like to consider us friends, and I do hope I have not insulted you.”

“Not at all, Victor”, Yuuri said, and he found that it was true: it was easy to forgive Victor when he was so clearly without any guile. “Your mother was only looking out for your best interest, and you were trying to reassure her. There is nothing insulting about that.”

“I‘m glad!” Victor sat up straighter in his chair again and the usual enthusiasm returned to his demeanour. “Let us forget all about this silly business then, and speak of more pleasant things, what do you say?”

* * *

The next day, a little while after Victor had taken his leave from his short luncheon visit, there was another knock on Yuuri‘s door.

Yuuri, having nothing much else to do, had been sitting up reading in one of his books and looked up, surprised, as he called his “Come in”. He had not been expecting any other visitors—other than the doctor and Victor, no one came to see him, not that he‘d expected otherwise. The door opened and an older gentleman stepped inside, solidly built, with the marks of age and hard work etched into his face and a hat covering his greying hair.

Yuuri set aside his book and sat up a little straighter under the critical look on the man‘s face. He couldn't help but shift uneasily, but he attempted to keep his voice even as he spoke.

“Can I help you, sir?”

The man‘s expression darkened further if possible, and he nodded, taking a measured step further into the room.

“Mr. Katsuki”, he said, “My name is Yakov Feltsman, I am the magistrate in this village. My apologies for appearing here unannounced like this, and for not coming to look in on you sooner after I heard about your recovery.”

“Ah”, Yuuri said, inclining his head, “no apology necessary, Mr. Feltsman. I very much appreciate the kindness and care you and this village have offered me. I‘m not sure I would be here today without it.”

Feltsman gave a little grunt that Yuuri could not interpret. 

“Don‘t mention it”, he said, “we've merely done our civic duty.”

“I am still indebted to you. And I have already assured that I will repay all the money that was spent on me here. I should be hearing back from my bank any day now.”

“This is something you need to take up with… well, I‘m sure you know. Victor has insisted on covering your costs personally in full. I‘m not sure I will be able to convince him to let you pay him back.”

Yuuri allowed himself a small smile. “I have discussed it with him, yes. He did not accept it easily.”

Feltsman nodded. 

“He is a generous boy, though not always very circumspect. But his heart is in the right place. Which, ah…”, now, for the first time, Feltsman‘s expression softened into something different, something almost like embarrassment, “which brings me to the actual reason of my visit.”

Yuuri looked down at his fingers twisted together in his lap, fidgeting.

“Say no more, Mr. Feltsman. You need not take the pains of saying it out loud. I quite understand.”

This seemed to stump the magistrate. “You do?”

“Of course.” Yuuri pulled up his shoulders in resignation. “Mr. Nikiforov has been spending a lot of time here, with a virtual stranger who was found wandering the land with barely any possessions. If I cannot provide an account of myself and prove that I am respectable, I am hardly fit company for a young gentleman such as Mr. Nikiforov.” He looked up and smiled sadly at the uncomfortable expression on Feltsman‘s face.

“Don‘t worry yourself about it, Mr. Feltsman, you are quite right in looking out for him. I can hardly take offence—it is true that I am not fit company for him.”

“You do not have a family or friends to vouch for you, then?”

Yuuri shook his head. “I do not. I have no more family and no more home. The letter from the school where I was an usher is the only reference I can offer, since what other possessions I had I seem to have lost along the way in my delirium, if I ever took them with me when I was cast out from the school. I know that it is not enough. I did not expect it to be.”

He cleared his throat, finding his voice suddenly hoarse and thin. 

“I hope you will forgive me for presuming on Mr Nikiforov‘s kindness when he was here. I do enjoy his company, and I am very thankful for everything he has given me. But I understand that it need be temporary. I am too grateful to him to not want his best, and I am aware that I am not it.”

Mr. Feltsman regarded him with sharp eyes for a long time, and then gave another grunt.

“Your insightfulness and your understanding do you a lot of credit, Mr. Katsuki. Your conduct is honourable, and I can tell from the way you express yourself that you are not a ruffian and have certainly had an education. But I need to look out for the needs of my student, and already the people in the village are starting to talk about his unusual interest in you. And his mother, you see, is very worried about him, very protective.”

“Please, Mr. Feltsman”, Yuuri said, “no need for justifications. I quite understand. I shall leave the village. I only ask that I can stay until the doctor gives me leave to travel. In the meantime, I will not encourage Mr. Nikiforov to come see me, but I will also not send him away if he does. I do not believe I would have the heart for it. I hope you can understand that.”

Feltsman gave him a sharp nod. “I am not a cruel man, Mr. Katsuki. I would never send you away before your health allows it. Do stay until you‘re fully recovered. And for what it‘s worth, I do hope that you have a place to turn to when you leave here. Some place where you‘ll be received kindly.”

“Don‘t worry yourself on my account, sir”, Yuuri said with a slight smile, “I will be just fine. And I am very glad that Mr. Nikiforov has such good people looking out for him.”

Feltsman made a grumbled noise of assent and turned to leave, though he stopped and made to extend his hand for Yuuri to shake. Then, with a sudden doubt crossing his expression, he retracted it again, looking rather awkward.

Yuuri, his hands still folded in his lap, looked up at him. 

“You meant that kindly, sir. I don't complain of your thinking better of it. It is true, a man in my position who cannot give a proper account of himself is not a man for a gentleman in your position to take by the hand. I thank you for your visit, Mr. Feltsman.”

Feltsman gave a sigh and nodded once more. “Goodbye, Mr. Katsuki.” And with that, he took his leave.

Yuuri stared at the door for a long time after he left, letting his words run through his mind. He really hadn't been surprised by the purpose of Mr Feltsman‘s visit. He knew the man was right; he couldn't stay in the village forever, and Victor was far too high in the social hierarchy to spend time with someone like Yuuri. A runaway, a vagabond—no, Yuuri would not tarnish Victor‘s reputation if he could help it.

He would humbly accept and appreciate Victor‘s company for the next few days until he was fully recovered, and then he would take his leave.

It was for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of notes for this chapter:
> 
> \- Inb4, I know that Japan was never colonised, the country would even still have been closed when his parents came to England. So. Bit of historical handwaving here. It doesn't really come up again so I figured it wasn't worth the trouble of coming up with an alternative history for Japan/making up some other reason why they came to England/changing his heritage.
> 
> \- Occasionally, there's just some lines from the original novel that have impressed themselves on my mind so much that I can't help including them in this story. You know, how you might use "You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you" verbatim if you wrote a P&P AU? This is gonna happen a couple of times in this story, The first instance is in this last scene, the paragraph that begins "You meant that kindly, sir." I'm trying not not stick too close to the source material and make this story my own, but some lines are just too good not to use.
> 
> See you next Friday for Chapter 5 💜


	5. no certain destination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor found himself distracted.
> 
> This was not, in and of itself, an unusual circumstance; Victor tended to be very easily distracted, especially from tasks and conversations that he was not particularly keen on pursuing. He often found his mind drifting away towards topics that he deemed more worthy of his attention, such as his dog, or his ship, or his dreams of travel. As of late, however, Victor found that his thoughts strayed even from those beloved topics that used to always keep him occupied, toward a single, concentrated point of interest.
> 
> Yuuri Katsuki.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my love to [Zjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose) and [Harky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harky21) for beta reading 💜
> 
> This chapter has some **TW** , which you can find in the end notes.

_… but he just closed and bolted the door silently behind him._

_I enquired what his purpose was in coming to my cabin, which he would not answer but by crossing the room and seizing me by the arms firmly, declaring that he could no longer wait until I made up my mind, and that he firmly believed I belonged with him. Immediately I attempted to extract myself from his grip, reiterating again in the strongest words that I would not in any way or form be with him, and that he should immediately remove himself from my cabin._

_My rejection appeared to anger him, and once more he tried to hold me firmly there on the beam, shouting that I had taken what was rightfully his, and that he would take it back by force, if need be._

_What he may have done next, had he gotten the chance, I cannot bear to think. It seems too dreadful even to contemplate. But I would not let the wretch have his way with me easily, so I continued to struggle, and finally managed to wrench myself out of his grip by dealing a blow with my knee to a rather sensitive area. I hurried across the room with a thought to escape him while he was still prone, but he caught up to me before I could unbolt the door, grabbing hold of me once more. I cursed him, and said that I had not taken anything from him that he was entitled to have. I shouted for help, too, but the terrible raging of the storm and the dreadful creaking of the ship‘s timber is sure to have drowned out any noises. He replied that it was his birthright and his inheritance that I had stolen from him, and only then did I finally understand who the man before me truly was._

_I will spare you the details of the ensuing struggle—suffice it to say that it was a fierce one, with neither of us prepared to let up. Even to this day it is vivid in my mind, short though it was. It can‘t have lasted more than a mere minute, a minute with blows dealt and curses hurled by both sides, before my hand found the heavy iron wrought candle holder, and the candle holder found the wretch’s head, and there he was, sprawled by my feet._

_Before the sequence of events had truly settled in my consciousness, I already knew deep in my bones that which I am sure I hardly need to say for you to understand._

_He was dead._

* * *

Victor found himself distracted.

This was not, in and of itself, an unusual circumstance; Victor tended to be very easily distracted, especially from tasks and conversations that he was not particularly keen on pursuing. He often found his mind drifting away towards topics that he deemed more worthy of his attention, such as his dog, or his ship, or his dreams of travel. As of late, however, Victor found that his thoughts strayed even from those beloved topics that used to always keep him occupied, toward a single, concentrated point of interest.

Yuuri Katsuki.

Whatever he was doing and whoever he was with, at any time of the day and night he found himself thinking of Yuuri Katsuki.

Yuuri Katsuki with the soft-spoken voice and the nervous hands, always moving, always fidgeting. 

Yuuri Katsuki, who could speak smartly of many a topic, who could ask insightful questions and listen with an intent that made Victor tingle.

Yuuri Katsuki, who could read, though it appeared not speak, at least four languages. 

Yuuri Katsuki, who was humble to the point of self-deprecation, and who sometimes said the most heartbreaking things that Victor had ever heard in the most casual tone of voice.

Yuuri Katsuki, who was unlike any other person Victor had ever met in his life.

This was, in fact, what Victor said, when Yakov had asked him about his unusual interest in Yuuri the other day. “Why do you bother with that man, Vitya?”, he asked as they were taking a break from his studies and taking a quick stroll around the garden with Makkachin. “Aren‘t there enough young men of your age in this village that you can strike up a friendship with? I‘m sure they‘d be very agreeable, much better company, certainly, than that man.”

Victor had smiled at him, pleasant and a little cold.

“I don‘t want to be friends with just any chap from around the village, Yakov. I want to be friends with Yuuri Katsuki. He is something so different, I have never met his like! Don‘t you agree?”

Yakov‘s sour expression spoke indeed of his agreement, except that he saw nothing whatsoever pleasant in Yuuri‘s being so different. Victor found Yuuri’s difference very refreshing.

He wasn't stupid; he knew that Yuuri was regarded with suspicion in the village, that he did not appear to produce a good first impression on those who met him: He was not sturdy and tall and fair, the way Englishmen always liked their young fellows to be. His disposition was nervous, his voice often hesitant, and he had a tendency to not meet the eye of one he was talking to if he did not know them well. Turning away his face, his eyes would flit around the room as if looking for something. This last one was damning in the eyes of many; an outright, honest gaze being for them the utmost measure of an honourable man.

Victor had long since decided it was nonsense, one and all. He was sure he‘d never met a more honourable man in all his life, nor a more intelligent one, except maybe for Yakov.

Certainly, it had taken Yuuri a while to warm up to him as well, but now he spoke to Victor with frankness and wit, and met his eyes steadily. He was the most pleasant company, and it irked Victor that even Yakov, who was a gruff but ultimately caring man, would judge his friend so harshly and unjustly. 

But it appeared Yakov was not so easily won over. He sighed at Victor‘s words.

“I understand your curiosity, Victor. I dare say it‘s only normal, your mother having kept you so close and well looked after all your life, that you should be interested to look beyond the scope of your own experiences and converse with people who have seen and experienced different things in life than you have. But still you would do well, I believe, to stay on your guard, and not lend your trust to any man you encounter.”

Victor had then smiled and agreed and said nothing more on the topic, because he knew it was futile to argue. Let Yakov believe what he wanted, he thought, and Victor would stick to his own opinion. 

And that was still what he thought now, as he made his way once more to the village inn to see Yuuri and spend the afternoon with him. Yuuri was continually improving and gaining strength—just the day before the two of them had taken a long walk around the village, since the doctor had declared that Yuuri was well enough for some movement and fresh air. It had been very enjoyable, strolling past the houses and over the fields with Makkachin at their heel, and if Yuuri was amenable, Victor was hoping to take him to the shipyard and show him his yacht today.

When he got to Yuuri‘s room and knocked, however, there was no reply.

He didn't think anything of it, at first. Perhaps Yuuri was asleep, or had stepped out. He opened the door carefully and quietly to take a look inside, but the room was empty. Yuuri wasn't there, and more than that: neither were his belongings. His bag that had been sitting on the small writing desk in the corner, the books on his nightstand—they were gone.The bed was freshly made and pristine, the window open to let in a breeze.

An uneasy feeling settled in Victor‘s gut as he closed the door behind him and went back downstairs to find the innkeeper. 

“Could you tell me where I might find Mr. Katsuki?”, he asked when he found him at last, “Has he gone out?”

“Ah, well…”, the innkeeper said, not quite meeting his eyes, “I‘m afraid Mr. Katsuki has left.”

“Left?”, Victor asked, agitation already building in his stomach, “Left to go where?”

“Left the village”, the innkeeper said, busying himself with some papers on his desk, “the doctor cleared him up to travel this morning, so he took his belongings and set out.”

Victor stared at him.

“And you just let him leave?”

“Why should I not?”, the innkeeper looked up at him now, eyebrows furrowed, “It is not for me to contradict the doctor, if the doctor clears him to travel. It is not for me to keep the man, if the man wishes to leave. He settled his remaining bill with me, and so I bid him farewell.”

At Victor‘s speechless silence, he looked back down at his desk.

“He did leave something for you, if I could just—ah, there we go!”

He handed Victor a small note addressed with his name, and Victor snatched it, rather rudely he would admit, out of the man’s hand and tore it open. 

The note was short and to the point.

“Do not blame Mr. Feltsman”, it ran, “Mr. Feltsman is right. Y.K.”

Victor did not have to think long to realise to what this referred, remembering vividly his conversation with Yakov. Distraught and shaking with anger, Victor turned over the paper, looking for anything more, an address or some way for him to keep contact with Yuuri, but there was nothing.

“Can you at least tell me where he went?”, Victor asked the innkeeper through gritted teeth. 

The innkeeper lifted his shoulders. “I believe he got a horse from the livery stable, but I don‘t know any more than that.”

“How long since he left?”

“Can‘t be more than half an hour or perhaps an hour since.”

Victor nodded and turned on his heel, storming out of the inn without a word of thanks or goodbye.

Outside, he hesitated, looking down both sides of the road as if he could still catch sight of Yuuri, but of course they were deserted. He did, however, see a girl at work in the gardens of the inn and, struck by a thought, hurried towards her.

“Excuse me”, he said, “would you mind telling me how long you have been working out here?”

The girl looked up at him with a mixture of confusion and apprehension on her face.

“Been here for most of the morning, sir, pulling weeds. Why do you ask?”

A glimmer of hope manifested in Victor‘s belly.

“You didn't happen to be here when Mr. Katsuki left? Did you see which way he went?”

The girl straightened up from her crouch then. 

“Mr. Katsuki? The dark-haired stranger, you mean? Did something happen, do you think? Did he get some bad news?”

Victor regarded her, brows furrowed. The girl seemed to take his look for confusion and carried on. “Only, I ask because he seemed terribly upset to be leaving, and one of the other girls who was working last night said that she could hear him crying in his room when she was up to stoke the fires. I thought perhaps you might know if there was something the matter.”

Victor felt his stomach clench painfully at the thought of Yuuri shut up all alone in his room, crying at the thought of leaving, and another flare of anger at Yakov rose up in him. Clenching his fist, he asked, “Did you see, then, which way he went?”

The girl, apparently understanding that he was not inclined to talk, indicated the way to him in silence, and with a nod and a murmured word of thanks, Victor hurried off in the direction of the livery stables.

It was thankfully only a matter of minutes until Victor got a horse saddled up and set off after Yuuri in a hurry, urging the mare along the road that the girl at the inn had indicated. 

It wasn't until he was safely on his way, with nothing more to do than keep his eyes fixed to the horizon, hoping for Yuuri‘s form to appear on it, that he really allowed himself to think about the implications of what the girl had divulged.

Despite his nerves and hesitancy, Victor had not found Yuuri to be an openly emotional man, nor a sentimental one. There was a certain reticence in his character, and he did not volunteer personal information easily, though when he did it was with a certain emotional detachment. However, from his conduct towards Victor and some remarks that he had made, it was also clear that he was singularly friendless, and appeared to never have experienced even the most basic kindness.

The thought of Yuuri, alone, faced with the decision to separate himself from his one friend who had treated him with kindness, short though their acquaintance had been, and finding his only relief in tears… it was enough to make tears burn in Victor‘s own eyes, and anger in his gut.

He would have to have a very stern talk with Yakov, but for now it was more important that he should catch up to Yuuri, to not let him leave like this, alone again, friendless, again.

* * *

Victor didn't know how long he had been riding, but the sun had travelled noticeably and he was starting to feel sore all over by the time a lone rider finally appeared in the distance, trotting along in the valley ahead of him in a more sedate pace. Sitting up in his saddle with a sharp intake of breath, he urged his horse into a canter to close the distance between them.

As soon as he judged to be in hearing distance, he called out.

“Yuuri! Wait!”

The figure turned in his saddle, pulling on his reins to slow his horse to a stop—it was indeed Yuuri, now looking back at him with an expression of confusion and worry as Victor caught up the rest of the way.

“Victor?”, he asked, as Victor pulled his mare up beside him, “What are you doing here? Is something the matter?”

“Is something the matter?”, Victor repeated, panting, a little out of breath from his quick ride, “You left! You just left, without even saying goodbye!”

Yuuri turned away, patting his horse‘s neck in a reassuring manner. “I apologise, Victor”, Yuuri said, not meeting his eyes, “I hope you won‘t find me ungrateful. I simply meant to spare you the worry and the trouble. They were quite right to send me away, you know. I wouldn't want my presence to have any negative effects on your reputation. I—”

“I thought you would know by now that I don‘t give a fig about my reputation”, Victor interrupted him. 

Yuuri sighed with a sad smile. “I know you don‘t. But for the sake of your mother… and for the sake of my peace of mind, let me go. I couldn't bear to be of any detriment to you.”

“You really don‘t have to worry yourself about that, Yuuri. I‘m sure they‘d come around on you, my mother, too, if they only knew you.”

“I know you believe that, but I really can‘t, Victor. I don‘t have a place in that village. I‘ll always be thankful to you for taking care of me, but I need to move on. I need to find a place where I‘m wanted.”

“I—”, Victor swallowed his next words before they could burst out of him, and took a deep breath, collecting himself. He knew he couldn't force Yuuri to stay if he didn't want it. “Still, you might at least have said goodbye.”

Yuuri looked down at his hands still, running them carefully through his horse‘s mane as it shook its head a little impatiently. “You‘re right, and I apologise. I was selfish, trying to make it easy on myself and avoid a prolonged goodbye. But you deserve better than that. I owe you so much, and I am more thankful to you than I could ever put into words. I hope you won‘t forget it, as I am sure to never forget about you.”

“Yuuri…”, Victor said quietly, urging his horse a few steps closer to him still, close enough, almost, that he could reach out and touch him, if he chose. “Does this really need to be goodbye? Won‘t you give me an address so I can write to you, at least? Surely there can‘t be anything wrong with a letter now and again?”

Yuuri sighed, still keeping his gaze down. “I don‘t believe it would be wise, Victor. Listen to your mother‘s and your tutor‘s advice, and put me out of your mind. Spend your time with people who will be more appropriate company for you. I have nothing to offer to you.”

“No!”, Victor said, a little more forcefully perhaps than he had planned, and Yuuri looked up, meeting his gaze for the first time in his surprise.

“I won‘t accept it”, Victor rushed on, “I do not care what my mother and Yakov will have to say about it, I won‘t be denied corresponding with a friend. It is my prerogative, and I won‘t have them take it from me. Nor you, for that matter!”

He straightened himself up in his saddle, facing Yuuri with as much authority as he could muster. 

“Did you not say you were thankful? Did you not say that you owed me? Well, what if I say that for my repayment, I wish for an address so that I may write to you? Will you deny me, even then?”

As Victor straightened up, so Yuuri slumped in his saddle at his words.

“Certainly I will not, if this is what you wish”, he murmured, “though I cannot say I understand your insistence. But it is outside my powers to deny you if you appeal to me like this. I…”

He trailed off and reached for his bag, pulling out a pen and a letter. 

“I do not have an address yet that I can give you. I can tell you that I am planning to go to London to see an old acquaintance of mine. I met him when he was travelling to England on one of the ships on which I used to work. His name is Phichit Chulanont, and I hope he will be able to help me find lodgings and a position in London.”

He held out the pen and paper to Victor. 

“If you write down your address for me, I will give you my word that I will write to you as soon as I have an address where your letters may reach me, and then you can write back to me if you choose.”

Victor accepted the paper eagerly and wrote down his address, taking care that it was clearly legible before handing it back to Yuuri.

“Thank you, Yuuri. And I apologise for what I said before. I do not believe that you owe me anything, and it was unkind of me to exploit your gratefulness. I, ah...”, he hesitated, thinking for a moment, before continuing, “I do hope that you will write to me, but not out of a sense of obligation. If you do, do so only if you genuinely wish to remain my friend. But do not hold yourself back on account of what you think I would want or would be best for me. That is for me to worry about. Just know that I would be very sorry indeed to lose touch with you.”

Yuuri searched his gaze again for a long time, as if looking for something in his expression, but finally he nodded. 

“I will write to you, Victor. I give you my word. I should be very sorry, too, if this was the last we saw of one another. But I need to be on my way now, and you should turn back. Do not make your family worry.”

“Alright. I wish you safe travels then, Yuuri.” Upon a sudden instinct, he reached out and took ahold of Yuuri‘s hand, squeezing it briefly before letting go. “I hope we shall see each other again, one day.”

Yuuri inclined his head with a sad little smile.

“Take care, Victor”, he said, before he turned away and gently urged his horse into a trot.

Victor looked after him, watching his figure grow smaller with the distance. Still he felt the heat of Yuuri‘s skin linger against his hand when he turned his own horse around and made his way back to the village.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW:** This chapter contains a non-explicit description of attempted sexual assault and violence between minor characters, leading to a minor character death. If you want to skip the passage, just skip over the excerpt from the letter at the beginning of the chapter.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and I really appreciate any comments and interactions. See you next Friday for chapter 6! 💜


	6. the strength to start again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was unable to concentrate on reading his books or the newspaper, finding his thoughts wandering whenever he attempted, wandering back toward Victor, who had so insistently pursued him and demanded his friendship.
> 
> Yuuri really didn't understand what it was that made Victor want to be friends with him so determinedly, but Victor‘s sincerity was beyond doubt. It would probably be best for Yuuri to stop questioning it and just accept it humbly while it lasted. 
> 
> Because it was sure not to last much longer, not now that Yuuri had left the village. Surely Victor would lose interest, now that he couldn't see Yuuri every day any more. Maybe they would exchange a few letters and then something—or someone—else would catch Victor‘s fancy, and Yuuri would be forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love to my beta readers, [Zjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose) and [Harky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harky21)!

_… He was dead._

_I will not bother you with descriptions of my distress here. It is no excuse and no amends for what I have done. I will not try to justify my actions, nor will I pretend that they were anything less than what they were because of how he conducted himself._

_I will only say that, every second of every day since that moment, I have direly repented what happened in that cabin that day, and every one of my actions that led up to it. I have begged for forgiveness from every divine entity that would cross my mind, hoping and praying that I will be shown mercy when my days here on this plane of existence end. Every night until this very day, I lie in fear that that mercy will be withheld, not because of the events that led up to his death, but because of what followed after._

_Once I had found my way back to my senses, once I was capable of moving again in that cabin, suddenly so terribly still despite the storm still raging outside, there was only one thing on my mind, the only thing I felt capable of doing: I needed to find my husband._

* * *

The journey to London was long and arduous. 

Once Yuuri had reached Bridgwater, he left his horse at a local livery stable and took the railway from there, making his way to the capital. The journey in the third class compartment was long and not particularly comfortable, but Yuuri was used to much worse circumstances. He spent much of the way sleeping, when there was quiet around him, and when he was awake he mostly found himself staring out the window at the passing scenery, thinking.

He was unable to concentrate on reading his books or the newspaper, finding his thoughts wandering whenever he attempted, wandering back toward Victor, who had so insistently pursued him and demanded his friendship.

Yuuri really didn't understand what it was that made Victor want to be friends with him so determinedly, but Victor‘s sincerity was beyond doubt. It would probably be best for Yuuri to stop questioning it and just accept it humbly while it lasted. 

Because it was sure not to last much longer, not now that Yuuri had left the village. Surely Victor would lose interest, now that he couldn't see Yuuri every day any more. Maybe they would exchange a few letters and then something—or someone—else would catch Victor‘s fancy, and Yuuri would be forgotten.

Yuuri might not have known Victor for very long just yet, but he already knew him well enough to judge his personality to be one of fleeting interests, save for a few noted exceptions, and Yuuri did not believe he had any reason to count himself among the latter. And it was quite alright, too. Yuuri didn't expect or deserve any different. 

He counted himself lucky for the few days he got to spend in Victor‘s company. It was not every day that Yuuri met someone who was so well-born and well-educated, and yet remained so down to earth. In addition to which he shared several of Yuuri‘s interests, and his personal charms were not to be denied. 

Most importantly, however, he had accepted Yuuri without question and without doubt, had given him his kindness, his attention and his time as if Yuuri deserved it as a matter of course. In all twenty years of his life—or, at least, in the twelve years since he had lost the last of his family—he could not recall anyone ever treating him like this.

Yuuri was used to having to justify himself every step of the way, having to fight for even people‘s begrudging acceptance, not to mention their affection. This struggle being absent in his friendship with Victor had thrown him off balance. For a moment he had forgotten himself, forgotten who he was and that someone like him could never hope to be close to someone like Victor. He had let himself enjoy Victor‘s company, had let himself grow attached to the man. 

Feltsman had done quite right in reminding him of his place, reminding him that it could not be. Yuuri had to go back, back to his life of wandering the land in search of some place to call home, if only for a short amount of time.

Maybe London would be kinder to him.

And with that his mind turned towards the next topic on hand. 

London, and his acquaintance Phichit Chulanont.

He didn't really know what was in store for him in the capital city, but he did know that he had nowhere else to go, and that Phichit was the closest thing he had to a friend outside of Victor.

He had met Mr. Chulanont while he was working on the _SS Arthur_ , a trade ship dealing in rice and spices from South East Asia. Mr. Chulanont had been a passenger travelling with them from Siam to England, where he was hoping to find his luck on the stage. 

Yuuri being busy with his tasks aboard the ship, they had not been able to spend very much time in each other‘s company. But occasionally, when Yuuri was released from his long hours of duty and did not immediately collapse into his hammock, exhausted from the hard work, they had been drawn together.

More so than their similar ages, it was their heritage that had brought them together; Chulanont, having the same dark hair and foreign features, and even darker skin than Yuuri, seemed to inspire the same aloofness in Englishmen that Yuuri often did. 

So they spent a few evenings together, talking, and Chulanont confided in Yuuri about his dreams of the stage. He loved plays, from Marlowe and Shakespeare to Wycherley and Collins, and would quote from them extensively to Yuuri‘s patient ears. Yuuri, in turn, had hesitantly told Chulanont of his dancing, of what he had taught himself and everything he had never had a chance to formally learn.

It wrung a bitter smile out of Yuuri, thinking about it now. He had gotten his formal training after all, after his encounter with Chulanont, though it had not been everything he had dreamt it would be.

When they had reached the end of their journey, Chulanont had insisted on furnishing Yuuri with the address of the relative he was planning on staying with in London, and bade him call on him any time he happened to be in the city.

Yuuri‘s way hadn't led him to London since, and so he didn't know if Chulanont was still with that relative all these years later, or if he was still in London at all, but right now, it was the only place he could think to go.

If he couldn't find Chulanont—well, he would just have to make it in London on his own, or else find a different city to test his luck in. It wouldn't be the first nor, he suspected, the last time he had nothing but himself and his talents on which to rely.

It was late by the time he finally got off the train in London, too late to still try and call on Chulanont, so Yuuri decided to put it off until the next morning and find someplace to sleep for now.

He stood for a while in front of the station, thinking of where to go, his caution warring with itself. Paying back the expenses of the inn and the doctor to Victor had torn a good-sized hole into the savings he had worked hard to accumulate over the last three years. It would be best for him now to avoid unnecessary expenses and hold together what money he had left if he was going to find some lodgings here in the city. He had years of experience finding a place to sleep under the starry sky, surely he could manage it for one more night.

But at the same time, he suspected it might be quite a different experience doing it in a large city such as London, as opposed to the comparatively quiet and peaceful realms of Scotland and Yorkshire. Besides, if he was to call on Chulanont in the morning, it was essential that he should make a good impression, and as such, a place to wash and shave in the morning would likely not be the worst of ideas.

So Yuuri took a deep breath and gritted his teeth, steeling himself to part with just a few more coins, walking on to find an affordable inn.

* * *

It took Yuuri most of the next day, more walking than even he was used to doing in the span of a single day, and asking a lot more people than he was comfortable with for directions, but by the time the sun was setting, Yuuri was finally knocking on the door of a flat occupied by one Phichit Chulanont.

Chulanont indeed no longer resided with his relative, Yuuri had been informed, and had been given an address of residence that he had subsequently visited and been informed that it was also no longer occupied by him. The tenant did, however, know Chulanont and while he did not know his current address, he had been able to point Yuuri in the direction of a couple of theatres where Chulanont had been doing backstage work, last the man had heard.

In the third of these theatres Yuuri had visited, someone had been able to give him the name of another stage where Chulanont was currently employed, and while they had not allowed him inside the theatre so that he could talk to Chulanont in person, they had agreed to pass along a note to him, which had been in short order answered with a very short but very excited note of his own, containing an address and a time early in the evening.

At this address Yuuri now stood, waiting for someone to open the door, and indeed it only took a few seconds after he had knocked that the door was thrown open to reveal a very excited looking Phichit Chulanont.

“Katsuki!”, he exclaimed, a wide grin spreading across his face, “It‘s so good to see you! Come in, please, come in!” He stepped aside to let Yuuri in and then grasped his hand, shaking it firmly.

“I could barely believe my eyes when I saw your note, my dear friend!” He led Yuuri inside, down a hallway into a parlour, looking over his shoulder all the while. “It really is you, isn't it? How marvellous to see you again, I did not believe it should happen. You look well! Still working at sea, are you?”

“I‘m… not, actually”, Yuuri said, looking around the parlour a bit uncertainly. It was a modest dwelling, but very lovingly furnished, colourful fabrics and embroidered cushions draped over the chairs and furniture. “Haven‘t been for a while now.”

“Oh? Well, where has life been taking you, then? What have you been up to since we parted ways?”, Chulanont asked, curiosity alight in his eyes. “Here, sit, sit! I‘ll make up up some tea. I must go back to rehearsals in a while, but we have time to talk yet.”

At this, Yuuri smiled, sinking gingerly down onto a chair. “So you actually did make it onto the stage, then. That‘s wonderful!”

Chulanont waved his words away as he busied himself with the tea kettle and stoked the fire in the oven. “It‘s not worth mentioning”, he said, “a few small roles in a few small companies. But it‘s what I came here to do, so I suppose I shouldn't complain.”

Yuuri shook his head with a slight laugh. “You can be proud of yourself, Chulanont. You've achieved something here.”

Chulanont looked at him over his shoulder with a wide grin. “I suppose I have, haven‘t I?” He straightened up as he waited for the water to boil.

“Well, what about you then? What brings you to London? Have you decided to pursue your dance after all? I‘m sure I could introduce you to some people, if you‘d like.”

“No, ah…”, Yuuri cleared his throat, “No, that‘s quite alright. It‘s not what I've come here for.”

“Hmm”, Chulanont tilted his head to the side, regarding him thoughtfully. “Grown tired of dance, have we?”

Yuuri sighed. “Something like that.”

“Well?”, Chulanont looked at him expectantly, and, when Yuuri didn't reply at once, went on, “Tell me, then. Where did the winds take you after we said goodbye at Portsmouth? Did you stay on the _SS Arthur_?”

“For a while”, Yuuri said, “But I… well, let‘s just say I grew a bit tired of the sea. I had a few different positions over the years, here and there, but nothing really worked out.”

“That‘s a shame.” Chulanont turned back to the oven once more as the kettle whistled, setting to brewing their tea. “And now you‘re here…?”

Yuuri nodded slowly, although Phichit couldn't see him, watching his movements absent-mindedly. “And now I‘m here…”, he murmured.

Chulanont carried a tray with a teapot and two cups over to set it down on a small side table before taking a seat on another chair next to Yuuri‘s and regarding him with an amused smile.

“I see you may have grown a little taller and a lot more handsome since we first met, but not any more forthcoming, hm? Never mind it, you don‘t have to share anything you don‘t want, of course.”

Yuuri sat back a little in his chair, taken aback. He could feel the heat rising into his cheeks. “Ah, Chulanont, that‘s… I don‘t know—”

But Chulanont interrupted him with a laugh. “Don‘t worry, Katsuki! I‘m not making advances, if that‘s what you were fearing, simply making an observation. I know what they say about theatre folk, but I do possess enough propriety, I believe, to not proposition an old acquaintance after he‘s been barely in my home for five minutes.”

Yuuri gave a relieved little laugh of his own.

“It‘s good to know that you‘re still as outspoken as ever.”

“I am!”, Chulanont confirmed with a grin, “But also, I should hope, a lot more handsome myself?”, he added, preening a little. Yuuri laughed again, relieved as some of the tension and awkwardness dissipated between them and settled into something more comfortable.

“Of course”, he said, “You've rather grown, too. You were so young still, when we first met. Travelling across the world all on your own.”

Chulanont gave a nonchalant shrug. “I suppose so. But I knew there was someone here waiting for me, so it wasn't that bad.” His gaze turned thoughtful as he looked at Yuuri. “You weren't that much older, though. And you were already at sea for a while back then, weren't you?”

“I suppose so.”

Chulanont smiled a sad, knowing smile.

“I know you don‘t like to talk about it, and I won‘t push you. But since you came here, looking for me, I guess there was no one waiting for you on land, was there?”

Yuuri cleared his throat and turned toward the tray on the table next to him, busying himself with pouring tea for Chulanont and himself. He tried not to think about his family, tried not to think of the events that had led him to the sea in the first place. 

He handed Chulanont his cup of tea.

“You see”, Yuuri said finally, “I was hoping to settle in London for a while, perhaps. Find work, though I can‘t think what it could be that I might do, and some lodgings. I've been travelling around so much. Perhaps it is time that I find a place where I can be…”, he stopped. He wanted to say _at home_ , but that felt like too much of an expectation. Then _at peace_ possibly, though that was something he had mostly given up on. “… at rest”, was what he finally settled on. That seemed like something to strive for.

“Oh!” Chulanont‘s face brightened over his cup of tea. “If you‘re looking for lodgings, I do believe that there are some other rooms in this building that my landlady was looking to let. I could—…”, he hesitated, before pressing on, “I could gladly introduce you and vouch for you, if you should be interested. There are a few other young bachelors in this building, and the rent is cheap. Do not feel pressured though—I understand that we don‘t really know each other very well, and I will take no offence whatsoever if you should prefer it to find a place somewhere else.”

Yuuri gave him a smile between sips of his tea.

“Not at all”, he said, “I really appreciate your offering, and if the conditions are affordable for me and your landlady will have me, I‘d be happy to accept.”

“Ah”, Chulanont waved his words away, “she is not too picky. She‘s housing theatre folk underneath her roof after all, isn't she? I‘m sure she‘ll like you perfectly fine as long as you can pay the rent.”

Yuuri nodded slowly. “Then it is all the more important that I should find some work. My savings will be enough to tide me over another month or two if I‘m being cautious, but really no longer. I need to find employment soon.”

Chulanont grinned, setting down his tea cup, and rubbed his hands together tidily. “Alright! Employment, then! And you said that you don‘t know what work it is you‘d like to do?”

Yuuri shrugged. 

“It is not so much the question of what I‘d like or not like to do as much as who would take me on. I don‘t have any education to speak for me, and barely any reference. I‘m willing to do anything that pays, though, and you know I‘m well acquainted with manual labour.”

Chulanont regarded him critically and hummed in a way that told Yuuri _this will not do_. “I‘m sure we can find something suitable for you, Katsuki”, he said. “Tell me, what skills do you have?”


	7. a place where I'll know peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knowing there could only really be one person who wrote to him at this address, he tore open the letter carefully, unfolding it with a pounding heart. He‘d already half expected not to receive a reply, sure that Victor would have forgotten about him within the couple of weeks since he left, or else that Mr Feltsman or Victor‘s mother would prevent him from corresponding with Yuuri.
> 
> Yet, here it was, in a handwriting that Yuuri did not yet know, but that he could only connect with Victor right away; a beautiful cursive, hastened by impatience, devolving to a scrawl here and there, ink staining the paper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~so are we ready to call time of death on this one yet?~~
> 
> Thanks to my beta readers, [Zjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose) and [Harky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harky21)!

_… I needed to find my husband._

_I hurried out without so much as a thought about the state in which I left the cabin, and sought him out where he was still helping with restoring the cargo. I was unsure how to catch his attention and draw him away from his task, but thankfully he happened to glance in my direction as I hurried closer, and it seems the distress was evident enough on my face that he could read it there plainly, for he extracted himself from his task, gave a word of excuse to the other passengers he was working with, and approached me._

_Being the sweet and attentive husband he is, he enquired about my health and wellbeing immediately, and for a moment I allowed myself to just take comfort in his presence and his embrace. As you surely know of your father, he is a steady man, his even temper and good humour a solace in unsteady times. Once I was composed enough to act, if not to speak, I took him by the hand and pulled him back to our cabin, which had thankfully been left undisturbed in our short absence._

_I cannot impress on you enough how scared I was in those moments after I opened the cabin door and firmly closed it behind the both of us again, how much I feared that he should hate me and cast me out for my deed…_

* * *

It only took them a few days to secure lodging for Yuuri in Chulanont‘s building, the landlady thankfully being content with Chulanont vouching for him, despite her sceptical grumbling.

Yuuri moved his sparse possessions into the furnished little flat, and faithfully kept to his promise: the first thing he did after he moved in was write a letter to Victor, informing him of his safe arrival in London and providing him with Yuuri‘s address.

By the time Victor‘s first reply reached him, Yuuri had let Chulanont lend him some decent clothes from his own wardrobe that Yuuri could wear to meet with potential employers. Chulanont‘s clothes fit him well enough, being only a little too short in the arms and legs, since Yuuri had a few inches of height on him.

He‘d already had a few interviews, though he really wasn‘t sure anything much would come of them. Despite Chulanont‘s reassurances, he felt like he was desperately underqualified for all of them. After Yuuri had told Chulanont of what he‘d learnt and experienced since his time on the SS Arthur, Chulanont had insisted that it should be easy to secure a good job for him, something more respectable and stable than manual labour. Yuuri quietly disagreed—he couldn‘t imagine that employers should accept his education if it hadn‘t been achieved in a formal university setting and had not been rewarded with a diploma.

But still he let Chulanont—or Phichit, as he insisted to be called as they became more familiar—set up interviews for him. Yuuri was thankful for Phichit‘s help, and couldn‘t bear to dampen his enthusiasm. The only thing he had insisted upon was that Phichit should not try to find him a position in dance. Phichit assured him multiple times that he had more than enough connections in the field to get him a place in a troupe, or perhaps a position teaching, if Yuuri was not interested in going on the stage himself. But Yuuri firmly declined his offer each time. He knew that Phichit was only trying to make him happy, and, considering the passion with which Yuuri had spoken of dance when they had first met, he knew where his insistence came from. But Yuuri did not know how to explain what dance had become to him without revealing too much of what the last few years of his life had been. Rather, he quietly and patiently declined Phichit‘s offers of auditions and focused on the other interviews instead.

He had yet to receive a positive answer from anyone and was, as a consequence, feeling rather discouraged. The letter that reached him with the morning post as he was sitting drinking his morning tea was therefore a pleasant surprise.

Knowing there could only really be one person who wrote to him at this address, he tore open the letter carefully, unfolding it with a pounding heart. He‘d already half expected not to receive a reply, sure that Victor would have forgotten about him within the couple of weeks since he left, or else that Mr Feltsman or Victor‘s mother would prevent him from corresponding with Yuuri.

Yet, here it was, in a handwriting that Yuuri did not yet know, but that he could only connect with Victor right away; a beautiful cursive, hastened by impatience, devolving to a scrawl here and there, ink staining the paper. Yuuri couldn‘t help but smile as he read the brief letter—just long enough to inform Yuuri that Victor had received his correspondence, he was glad Yuuri was well and had found accommodations, and was looking forward to sending him a longer response by the evening post, which meant that Yuuri had another letter from Victor to look forward to the next morning, maybe the evening, if he was lucky.

For now, he folded the letter up again carefully, and tucked it into his breast pocket, draining the last of his tea to face the day and another round of interviews with renewed energy.

* * *

_Pimlico, London, May 22, 18XX_

_Dear Victor,—I hope this letter finds you well. I thank you most kindly for your reply, I was very glad to receive it._

_I am happy to hear of your progress with your vessel, it sounds like she may be prepared for her maiden voyage very soon. I am sure she is looking more beautiful than ever and will serve you very faithfully on any journey you may take._

_I appreciate your enquiring about my health—I continue well as I have for the last weeks. I do believe that the fever is now out of my system and I have recovered for good, so you need not worry yourself on my account._

_My accommodations are proving to be comfortable and convenient—Pimlico may not be the most prestigious area of London, but neither am I a particular prestigious person, and the grounded atmosphere of the quarter rather suits me. It is an unusual, but not unpleasant, circumstance to live in the same building as my acquaintance Mr. Chulanont, who continues to look after my well-being in the most friendly manner. He‘s proving to be pleasant company despite the years that have passed since our last meeting, and he has been very helpful in my endeavour to find employment._

_This endeavour has not yet proved fruitful, though I am continuing to attend interviews and have as of this morning received a reply from the editor of a magazine I had spoken with earlier this week, letting me know that they had enjoyed our interview and would like to receive some samples of my writing to determine whether I might be a good fit for them. I am sure nothing will come of it—despite all my reading I have never been much of a writer, and I am sure I am not qualified to be a journalist. Nonetheless, I shall attempt my best to provide him with some samples of the work I can do, as I wait for replies from the positions I might be more suited to. I shall keep you informed if there are any new developments on this front._

_In the meantime, I am looking forward to your next letter and hearing about how life is treating you. Please pass on my love to Makkachin. Until then, I remain_

_gratefully yours,_

_Yuuri Katsuki_

_Blue Anchor, Somersetshire, May 24, 18XX_

_My dearest Yuuri—Let me start off by saying that I am sure you are deserving and capable of doing any job you apply yourself too, and I am sure your next letter to me will contain the news of your employment with the magazine. Admittedly, I have not ever read anything you‘ve written, except for your letters, but I know you to be intelligent and well-read and have absolute faith in your abilities._

_It is good to hear that you have good company in your new home and are not all by yourself in the big city. Do pass on my appreciation to Mr. Chulanont for looking after you._

_On my side, things continue much as usual—we have begun with the construction of the mast on the ship, Makkachin has been rather enjoying the warmer weather and has been hunting seagulls by the shipyard. After your rather enthusiastic praise of the book, I have procured a copy of Goethe‘s Faust, though I do not trust myself to read it in the original German as you did. I got my hands on an English translation, which I am afraid is challenge enough for me. It is not easy reading, though I perhaps should have expected as much. I do rather enjoy the story so far, however: there is a poodle in it! It makes me understand right away why you enjoyed it—any story with a poodle in it must be an enjoyable one. I have taken to reading passages of it aloud to Makkachin when I can, though I am not sure she appreciates my efforts. I shall keep you posted on my progress with this peculiar story, and perhaps we can discuss it more once I have made my way through._

_In the meantime, I am hoping to convince my mother that I could take a trip into London sometime before the season ends. I am rather inclined to see something new this summer, and it would give me an opportunity to call on you. I am sure by then you will be an expert on life in London and capable of showing me all the best places. I will let you know as soon as I have convinced my mother that it is perfectly safe for me to travel to the city. Perhaps I shall have to bring old Yakov along to appease her…_

_I am looking forward to hearing from you again soon, and until then I am_

_Your affectionate friend,_

_Victor Nikiforov_

* * *

_Pimlico, London, June 12, 18XX_

_Dear Victor—thank you so much for your last letter, and in particular your story about Makkachin and how she wormed her way into Yakov‘s pantry and stole away his sausages. It gave me a hearty laugh, and you are right: perhaps Makkachin is a little devil in her own right. Perhaps it is simply in the nature of poodles._

_As for your asking for recommendations, I should not suggest that you continue your reading endeavours with Faust II, as I found it far below in quality to the first instalment. There are, of course, many other worthwhile stories that Goethe has written, should you be interested in pursuing this particular writer, but there are also plenty of other options available, if you wish to broaden your horizons. If you want to continue with the Germans, I want to offer you the name of Heinrich von Kleist, who, despite his death at a young age, has created some rather wonderful tales. I have rather enjoyed his Marquise von O. in particular. If you want to turn your eyes toward other languages, I want to recommend to you the Italian poet Giacomo Leopardi, and surely you have heard of the rather brilliant Jane Austen? If you have not yet read any of her novels, I also want to give you my warmest recommendation._

_I have been sorry to read that your mother is not in good health. Though I know she bears no love for me, I am sending her my best wishes for her speedy recovery. Let us hope that it is only a passing illness and that she will be recovered soon. I am sure with you there to take care of her, she will be better in no time, just as I was._

_My work is continuing well—after I have written some more pieces for different sections of the magazine, my editor has finally settled on giving me the task of writing reviews for local theatre performances. I am still not sure I am qualified to give my opinion on these, but he appeared to value the reviews I have written so far, and I will try my best not to disappoint his expectations._

_I am beginning to establish a routine here in London, it is strange how quickly one can get used to a new place of residence, even if it is one so vast and busy as London. I spend my mornings and afternoons at work, I take my luncheon in the same pub more often than not, I spend my evenings alone, reading, unless there is a performance I am obliged to see for my work._

_Since Mr. Chulanont is rather occupied with his own rehearsals and performances, we rarely find time to take our supper together, though we do it gladly, when we can. He does attempt to get me to go out more often and meet other people, but I must say I have little interest in it. I am quite content to be by myself most of the time, and rather too much of my life has been spent in unrest for me not to appreciate some calm. Besides, I am aware that others rarely appreciate my company, and I would not want to be a burden on Mr. Chulanont and his friends._

_But quite enough of myself—I hope that you do continue well, and do not worry yourself about putting off your trip to London. It is only right that you should stay and look after your mother until she is well once more. While I would of course have been happy to see you again, rest assured that I am not disappointed by the delay._

_I am looking forward to receiving your reply at your leisure._

_Your obliged and affectionate friend_

_Y.K._

* * *

_Blue Anchor, Somersetshire, June 16, 18XX_

_Dearest Yuuri—I have received your letter with the greatest pleasure for it was a welcome ray of light in unpleasant times. But do let me explain what I mean before I make you worry unduly—it is not as bad as all that._

_Unfortunately, my mother’s health has not improved since my last letter. She also does not appear to have deteriorated, but I am quite worried for her, as I am sure you can imagine. In addition, there appear to be some circumstances in connection with her falling ill that I have not been informed of and that Yakov appears determined not to share with me. I’m sure he is only trying to look out for me, but I do wish he would not treat me like a child. I will try my hardest to find it out, for perhaps it shall help me ensure her recovery. Something must have occurred to weaken her nerves, the illness having come on so suddenly, and perhaps eliminating the cause will help with her improvement._

_But let us talk of more pleasant things. Though I am not certain how much time I will have to read in the near future, I thank you for your suggestions and will make sure to try them all as soon as I can. I trust your judgement, and, after all, you have not led me astray yet._

_I am glad to hear you have settled into your work, I’m sure you’re suited to it splendidly. It must be exciting to have a good reason to go and see all manner of plays and performances! I must say I envy you, not having seen anything more modern or exciting than a nativity play in some years. Maybe someday I’ll have the chance to go see a play with you myself._

_I suppose it is inevitable that one shall establish a routine if one is settled anywhere, but I do hope you are not isolating yourself unnecessarily. I’m sure your friend would appreciate your company, just as I would if I had the chance to. I am not certain why you believe anyone would not enjoy spending time with you, but I assure you there is no truth to it._

_I apologise if this letter is rather shorter than I would usually write—the doctor has kept me long to discuss my mother’s condition, and I do want to make sure that the letter goes out with today’s post so that it reaches you soon. Rest assured that I shall keep writing to you and I beg that you should continue to write to me as well. Receiving your letters and reading them is the utmost pleasure of my days, and it makes these times that much easier to bear._

_Be assured, my dear Yuuri, of my deepest affection._

_Victor_

* * *

_Pimlico, London, June 18, 18XX_

_Dear Victor—I was sorry to hear that your mother’s health has not improved, but I am glad if my humble words can give you a moment of distraction in these trying times. I wish there was more that I could do to be of service to you, but naturally I will keep writing to you, and continue to send my best wishes for your mother’s recovery. Do not worry yourself about the length of your replies--any word from you is more than enough for me._

_There is not a lot of news to tell on my side, except that I have given in to Mr. Chulanont’s insistence and your encouragement and have gone out with him and his friends from the theatre one night after their performance. Much as I had anticipated, I should have refrained, for I am afraid I did rather ruin their evening. The fault was all mine, I am sure—I may have had one drink too many, and perhaps I was a little keyed up in consequence. I am sure that is why I was unable to take one of Mr. Chulanont’s acquaintance’s remarks on Mr. Chulanont’s and my heritage “like a sport”, as many of the group have suggested that I should have. I should not have lost my temper, and though Mr. Chulanont insists that he does not resent me for it, even claims to be thankful, I am certain he is just trying to keep the peace. I only hope I have not made things more difficult for him at his work by confronting his colleagues._

_Now that I have written it down, I am uncertain I should have told you of this episode—it is not flattering, nor is it the encouraging material I am sure you are looking for during this time, and I apologise for burdening you with it. But it is the only thing I have to tell, my life hardly being the most adventurous. I only hope you do not think less of me for it._

_I do also hope that news of my behaviour will not spread and affect my work, for I am rather coming to enjoy it. This week I have already seen and written about a rather marvellous performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and one of Oliver Twist, with admittedly rather subpar costumes and backdrop, but quite a remarkable cast, which makes up for it all the more. So far, I have been employed in reviewing mostly performances in the lower end theatres, being the most junior employee at the magazine and lacking both the experience and, admittedly, the wardrobe to attend the more prestigious plays, let alone operas and ballets. I must admit, however, that I am quite impressed by these already, and can sometimes barely imagine any improvement in quality. Having so far only experienced these plays in their written form, it is, I have to say, quite a different and more intense experience, seeing them performed as they were meant to be rather than confined to lifeless paper._

_Is it foolish to admit this? Despite my immense interest in the ballet and my rather extensive reading on the subject, I must admit I have never seen any of it performed by a full ensemble, with an actual orchestra to supply the music. What a wonderful experience it must be! Though I do not believe I would have anything but awe to express about it, I do wish that I should someday have the opportunity to review such a performance, just so I can see it in person. But I suppose this must be a long time in the future, and until then I shall have to keep my head down and do the work that is expected of me._

_I will close this letter here and I apologise for speaking about myself as much as I have. I hope it has not been too tedious for you to read. Please pass along my love to Makkachin, as always, and I remain_

_Your faithful friend,_

_Y.K._

* * *

_Pimlico, London, June 27, 18XX_

_Dear Victor—I hope this letter finds you and your family well. I hope you do not mind my writing to you despite not having received a response to my last letter—I can imagine that you have other things on your mind right now than writing letters, but still I wanted to check in on you and see if you are doing alright. I also wanted to ensure that my last letter or your response to it did not get lost on the way from or to London. I believe the postal service is fairly reliable these days, but accidents do happen._

_In any case, please know that I am thinking of you and continue to send my prayers for your mother’s health. I hope you are also looking after yourself and not neglecting your own wellbeing in the meantime._

_I have been reading a new volume of poems lately and they have been rather reminding me of you, and so my thoughts have stayed with you throughout these days. I am not sure if you are interested in reading poetry, or if you could find a volume of this book that was not easy to procure even in London, but the collection is entitled Leaves of Grass, written by an American writer named Walt Whitman. I do recommend it, it’s rather unusual in its beauty._

_I am looking forward to your reply whenever you find the time to write it, but do not hurry yourself unduly. There is no reason for haste, and I shall await your response patiently._

_As ever, gratefully yours,_

_Y.K._

_P.S.: Should my account of my conduct in my last letter have offended you, I ask your forgiveness and hope that you may be able to grant it. I am thoroughly ashamed of my own actions and my passionate nature that brought it on, and I shall do better to keep myself in check in the future._

* * *

_Pimlico, London, July 11, 18XX_

_Dear Victor—another fortnight has passed without a reply, and I hope I am not remiss in sending you another letter. I hope it finds you in good health and is not unwanted. If the latter should be the case, you need only say a word and I shall not bother you again. I would not wish to be a nuisance to you under any circumstances. For now, however, I will hold fast to the last communication I received from you--that my letters bring you some solace in your difficult time—and I will keep sending them._

_It may please you to hear that since I last mentioned it, I have indeed had the opportunity to go see the ballet. It was not a prestigious company nor a large, extravagant opera house, but it was a full ensemble accompanied by a chamber orchestra, and it was one of the most beautiful and moving experiences of my life, to see them creating art together. To that day, I had never realised how much implicit trust and complete attunement to one another was involved in a ballet performance. I had only known the music and the elegance and lightness of movement, but it seems empty to me now without the finely orchestrated support of other danseurs._

_I do wish you might be able to experience it one day alongside me; it was the most marvellous thing to behold and I am sure you would find it as deeply moving as I did._

_For now, I shall leave you with my best wishes for you and your family and remain_

_Affectionately Yours,_

_Y.K._

* * *

_Pimlico, London, Jul 23, 18XX_

_Dear Victor—I am not certain if I have offended you, but if I have, I apologise most sincerely. If your life has simply not allowed you the time to reply to my letters, rest assured that I do not resent it and will gladly pick up our correspondence again whenever you please. If you have thought better of our acquaintance and would rather not be associated with someone like me any longer, I understand and shall not force myself on you any more._

_This shall be my last communication to you for the time being, unless I receive any message from you that you wish to continue our correspondence. Until then, I hope you will believe that I remain obliged to you for your help and your kindness for the rest of my life and remain, always,_

_Gratefully Yours,_

_Y.K._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen friends. I'm gonna be straight with you, I'm about ready to give this fic up.  
> I've been struggling with writing it from the beginning, and I'm struggling still. I'm not feeling it, and while I am very thankful for the few people who kept coming back for every chapter, clearly the fandom isn't feeling it, either. So. I think when no one is enjoying this experience, there's no point for me to keep struggling through this.  
> I'm going to keep posting the chapters I have already written, and I will try to keep going until the first major plot point, which should be about 4-5 chapters from here, where most of Yuuri's secrets are revealed, so you're not left completely in the lurch. But if you'd rather drop this story now before it goes any further then I understand and I won't blame you. That's why I'm telling you now, instead of just dropping the last chapter and saying "bye".
> 
> This is not, btw, an attempt to fish for more kudos or comments; while I appreciate of course each and every single one of them, they will at this point not make a difference to my decision on whether or not I continue the story. It's just not up to my standards and I can't stand behind it with any kind of confidence, and I think it shows in my writing. 
> 
> I apologise for doing this, and if there's anyone invested enough to want to know the outcome of the story, I'll gladly give you a summary when the time comes.
> 
> Thanks for your understanding.


	8. to bid the darkness in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all began with another visitor to the village.
> 
> One day, only a short time after Yuuri Katsuki had left Blue Anchor, another stranger appeared. Now, one stranger unexpectedly turning up in the village was a strange enough circumstance. Two, in such a short succession, was practically unheard of. 
> 
> And yet, there she was one afternoon, a woman of middle age, with a fair and beautiful complexion and pale hair, asking the way to the home of the Nikiforovs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left kind words on the last chapter. I'm glad some of you are liking this story.
> 
> Also as always thanks to my beta readers, [Zjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose) and [Harky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harky21)!

_… I cannot impress on you enough how scared I was in those moments after I opened the cabin door and firmly closed it behind the both of us again, how much I feared that he should hate me and cast me out for my deed._

_The thought that I might have done something that would make him despise me and renounce any association with me was much more of a terror still than those minutes alone in the cabin with Andrei had been. It was the last time I ever doubted your dear father‘s devotion to me and our little family, and I am ashamed to think of it now._

_Your father, level-headed as ever, took a long look around the room and then at the body of our supposed friend sprawled on the cabin floor, the wretched candle holder next to it, and, surely considering what he knew of what we had thought was an innocent infatuation with me, he came to a conclusion. It was not quite the right one, and so it was on me to relay to him the things he had said to me when we had been alone together, and the conclusion to which it had led me: that this was not the man that he had made us believe he was. That his name, unless I was very much mistaken, was Andrei Nikiforov._

* * *

It all began with another visitor to the village.

One day, only a short time after Yuuri Katsuki had left Blue Anchor, another stranger appeared. Now, one stranger unexpectedly turning up in the village was a strange enough circumstance. Two, in such a short succession, was practically unheard of. 

And yet, there she was one afternoon, a woman of middle age, with a fair and beautiful complexion and pale hair, asking the way to the home of the Nikiforovs.

Yakov encountered her on his way to the post office to send some letters, and he answered her question politely, pointing the way. The moment stayed present in his mind afterwards for several reasons: one, the woman was a stranger in the village and, as such, her presence alone was memorable. Two, she was remarkably attractive, and even Yakov, who in his old age did not pursue such fancies any longer, was not blind to her personal charm, her graceful figure, and her charming voice. Third, in all his years of being Mrs Nikiforov’s friend and Victor’s tutor, he had never witnessed them receiving any visitors. He knew that Mrs Nikiforov had a family that she was not on good terms with, and no close personal friends outside of himself. 

Nonetheless, it was not his business to question the stranger, and so he indicated the way to her and let her go. He did wonder about her and the purpose of her visit, however, for the rest of the afternoon, hoping that it was not bad news she brought. Mrs Nikiforov had already been worrying enough lately, what with the appearance of the usher and her son’s strange friendship with him, and she had only just started to regain her calm now that the usher was gone.

Yakov was not certain if Mrs. Nikiforov was aware that Victor was still corresponding with him, though he could not imagine that Victor was able to reign in his enthusiasm enough to keep it from her, even if he wanted to. So perhaps she deemed some letters harmless enough, or, like Yakov himself, was still hoping for this fancy of Victor’s to pass, as most of his fancies were wont to.

Though Yakov did not share in her fretting and what he sometimes thought of as overprotectiveness, he could not blame a mother in being worried over her son, knowing that he was her only child, and the only family she still had in her life. Besides, Yakov had gotten to know her well enough through the years to understand that there must have been a lot of pain in her past, pain the like of which she no doubt wished to spare her son. 

Unable to contain his curiosity, as well as being concerned for his friend, Yakov decided to stop by the Nikiforovs’ home after he’d taken care of his errands. Asking at the door, he was informed that the visitor had indeed already left, and he was in short order let inside. Entering the sitting room, his concerns were proved to be justified: Mrs Nikiforov was in a state of fretful worry and distress, pacing the room restlessly. 

“Are you quite well?”, he asked after a greeting that she had returned distractedly. When he did not receive a clear reply, he ventured to say: “I hear you have had a visitor today.”

Mrs Nikiforov stopped in her pacing and looked at him finally. Her appearance was impeccable as usual, her dress neat and modest, her hair pinned up quite tidily, and yet there was something frazzled about her look, something unsettled. It was in the way she chewed on her lips and wrung her hands, in her eyes that looked at him with something pleading in them.

Yakov sighed. “I take it this was not a courtesy call, then”, he murmured.

“Indeed it was not”, Mrs Nikiforov replied. “I…”, she hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. “The woman who visited me… she used to work as my maid, back when I was only a girl, before I was married. We did not part amicably, nor was her visit today a friendly one.”

Yakov frowned and crossed the room thoughtfully to sit down in a chair, relieved when Mrs Nikiforov followed him and took a seat beside him, though she was still fidgeting restlessly.

“If it was not a friendly visit, what did she want then?”, he asked, “Money?”

Mrs Nikiforov nodded.

“She described herself as being in distress. She needed money to look after herself and her small son. She-... she’s in possession of some information…”, she broke off, looking desperately around the room for a moment before meeting Yakov’s eyes again. 

“My dear Yakov, I do not believe you would be surprised to hear if I told you that my life before I came to this village had not been a happy one. Though you know I love my Vitya more than anything, the circumstances surrounding my marriage and the loss of my husband… I beg of you to not judge me when I tell you I haven’t always conducted myself honourably. And though it may be asking a lot of your friendship, I beg you not to press me on details on this behaviour. Even after all these years, it is still too difficult for me to talk about, and I should not want for you, my only friend in these days of my life, to think any less of me.”

She sighed, looking down into her lap.

“But yes, the woman who visited me is in possession of this knowledge, and she threatened to use it to blacken my name in the village and, more distressingly, to my son, should I refuse to help her.”

Yakov nodded and tried to make it as understanding as he was capable.

“So you gave her the money?”

Mrs Nikiforov nodded. “I gave her anything she asked for. I do not care for money, but what I do care for is the opinion of my Vitya. I do not believe I could bear it if he should hate me for my conduct.”

“Now, now”, Yakov grumbled, “I do not believe that Vitya would be capable of hating you, no matter what anyone should tell him of you. He adores you quite like a son should adore his mother.”

Mrs Nikiforov gave him a sad smile.

“I appreciate you saying so, Yakov, though still the risk is one too big for me to take.”

“I understand”, Yakov said, “but the wretch has been paid off then? She has left the village?”

Mrs Nikiforov gave another nod, but she had a resigned look about her. “Indeed she has, for now. But I am sure that it will only be a matter of time until she returns, now that she has found me, and is aware that I am willing to give her what she demands.” Her gaze wandered out the window contemplatively. “Perhaps it is time that Vitya and I make a new home for ourselves elsewhere. It was foolish, I suppose, to stay here so long, but I grew complacent in my old age, and we’ve had such a peaceful time of it so far in Blue Anchor.”

Yakov was silent for a long while. Really, he wanted to argue against his friend, wanted to make his case for them to stay, referring perhaps to Victor’s stability and roots in the village. He was anxious to keep this small family that he had begun to think of as his own, having no other relations himself except for an estranged wife in Paris, close to himself. But the truth was, he knew that Victor would be thrilled to leave Blue Anchor, to—as he would see it—go out into the world and see something new. He also knew it would quiet his friend’s anxiety, and he was not selfish enough to demand that they should stay with him. 

“If you believe it to be the best course of action, my dear”, he finally said, “then of course I shall not keep you from it. Indeed, I shall assist you in any way I can. The only thing I ask is that you do not unduly hasten your departure and put your health at risk. That woman, having gotten what she came for, is not likely to return for a while yet, so take your time to consider where you should like to go and arrange for the move at your leisure.”

“I suppose you’re right”, Mrs Nikiforov said, though not without some hesitation, “I will consult my son on where he would like to go, though I already know we shall have to stay close to the shore, lest I break his heart by taking him away from the shipyard. But there are plenty of seaside villages on this island, I suppose…”

She trailed off, continuing to look out the window into her garden and beyond, where Blue Anchor’s houses formed a neat row into the distance. Then, all of a sudden, she turned her head to face Yakov again, her eyes sharp.

“I must ask you not to mention any of today’s events to Vitya. I want to keep this sorry business away from him as much as it is within my power. I’m sure you’ll understand. Pray do not let him know of my visitor, or of the reason we shall be moving away.”

Yakov gave a deep sigh. Though he was rather wary of such dishonesty, he was unable to deny her request when she asked it of him so earnestly. Still, he was uncertain if it would be possible to hide from Victor the distress of the day and the reason for what would certainly be a very sudden change in his circumstances regardless of how much time they took with it. Victor might be a distractable and on occasion flighty young man, but he was also intelligent, and as stubborn as no other. 

* * *

Thus it happened that the circumstances of Victor’s life changed suddenly, in the span of one afternoon, without any of his knowledge. When he returned from the shipyard in the evening, he may have noticed his tutor to be a little more distempered than usual, his mother to be a little more than usual vexed and restless. But upon his questions he got only vaguely reassuring answers, and to his own stories of the way he’d spent his day he only got an absent-minded smile or comment here and there, so when a new letter from Yuuri reached him with the evening post, he gladly devoted all of his attention to that.

Over the next days and weeks, however, it became apparent how his mother’s fretting and worrying increased, how her nerves appeared to fray. She would see his leaving the house with the utmost reluctance, asking ever more questions about what he had done and who he had seen when he returned. She even made a remark, once or twice, about how she wished that Victor would cease his work at the shipyard and stay at home with her, instead. These Victor carefully ignored, sure that they were only a result of his mother’s nerves, though where these nerves stemmed from, he was unable to determine. 

It also seemed to distress his mother whenever he received a letter from Yuuri or mentioned him in passing in conversation, so much so that Victor began to avoid talk of him, much as it pained him, since he did not want to keep a friendship that was so precious to him from his mother. He could not, however, hide the letters themselves, and whenever he received one of them or his mother saw him at work on writing a reply of his own, she would beg him to cease their correspondence. Though he tried to understand her, she would never explain to him why she took such offence at their acquaintance. He had not believed his mother to be so small-minded as to object to a friendship that brought him genuine joy on a matter so insignificant as social standing. But rather than explain her reasons, she kept enquiring about whether he had learned anything more of Yuuri’s family and his background, and if he was really sure that he was who he said he was.

Who else was he supposed to be? To this question she did not seem to have an answer. Was there any reason that she suspected him? None that she could name. Nevertheless she would not ease off the topic.

And then there was the question of their moving. 

“Vitya, what would you think of our moving someplace else?”, she asked him one night over their supper, “We‘ve been in this village for so long, I think it might be time for a change, don‘t you?”

Victor looked up at her, surprised, his forkful of lamb hovering halfway to his mouth.

“Of course!”, he said, “I‘d be glad to, as long as it can wait until my yacht is finished. It should be no more than a few weeks now before she is ready for her first venture. Maybe she could even take us wherever we might like to go, what do you think?”

His mother cleared her throat, looking down at her plate and turning over her potatoes restlessly. “I shouldn‘t like to put it off any longer than necessary”, she said, her voice strained, “but I suppose it will take us at least that long to secure lodgings elsewhere and put our things here in order.”

"Splendid! Have you given any thought to where you would like us to head, then? Bridgwater perhaps, or Portsmouth? London?“

He couldn‘t quite contain the eagerness in his voice at the thought of living someplace new and exciting, perhaps even a real city.

"Somewhere rather smaller, I think", his mother replied, "You‘ll want it to be by the coast, I suppose, so maybe in the midlands, or Yorkshire, even."

This put a damper on Victor‘s enthusiasm, and he set down his fork, really contemplating his mother‘s suggestion for the first time, beyond the exciting prospect of moving. 

"What‘s brought this on, mother?", he asked, "Why the haste? And why so far away? Is something the matter?"

She looked up briefly and gave him a fleeting smile with no real feeling behind it. 

"Nothing‘s the matter, my love. I just thought—well, you‘re young, you always say you want to see more of the country. I thought a change of scenery might be good for you."

Victor furrowed his brow, trying to penetrate the emotionless intonation of his mother‘s voice. "You‘ve never thought a change of scenery might be good for me before. I‘ve lived here as long as I can remember. Last week you wouldn‘t even let me take a trip to London. There must be another reason."

"There‘s no reason", she insisted, but there was a nervous tone now creeping into her voice, "it‘s only—well, London is such a big city. It is dangerous there, you might run into all sorts of criminals or—or vagabonds. It‘ll be nice and quiet for us in the countryside. You can bring your boat and—"

Victor crossed his arms before his chest, leaning back in his chair. 

"Is this about Yuuri again?"

His mother flinched, but he pressed on before she could say anything.

"Give it a rest, mother. He left. You and Yakov got him to leave. He won‘t come back here, and I won‘t stop corresponding with him, even if you move us to the other side of the country. I really don‘t understand—"

"It‘s not about that man, Vitya", his mother interjected weakly. She was looking rather pale. "Didn‘t you always say you wanted to go somewhere else, see something new?"

Victor scoffed. 

"Yeah, and how new it‘ll be! Another tiny English seaside town with narrow-minded English seaside dwellers. And then I suppose I‘ll work at another shipyard. What, will Yakov move with us so he can keep teaching me like a school boy? Is this what the rest of my life will be?"

"Vitya, please", his mother said, clutching at the napkin in her lap, "You were the one who wasn‘t interested in going to university. Haven‘t you been happy?"

"That I didn‘t want to go to university and spend more time bent over dusty old books doesn‘t mean I want my life to stay the same forever. I‘ve been… happy enough working in the shipyard so far because it‘s allowed me to build my own yacht so that I may use it to see more of the world. What else did you think I would do when it was finished?"

His mother looked up at him from across the table, a pleading expression in her eyes. "So you‘d just go off and leave your old mother all by herself?"

Victor sighed, his expression softening a little. "Of course not. You‘d be more than welcome to join me."

She shook her head. "You know I can‘t travel with you Vitya. I can hardly bear to be on a train or a carriage. How would you expect me to stand a little yacht on the seas?"

Victor ran his hand through his hair, thinking.

"Then I‘ll gladly help you settle in another little village across the country, if that is where you wish to be. But don‘t expect me to stay there with you always. I‘m a grown man! Let me travel! Let me see something of the country, if not the world. Let me take my little yacht up to Scotland or down to the Isle of Man. Let me go to London for a few weeks during the season! And trust that I will always come back to you."

Still his mother looked hesitant, so he pressed on.

"Don‘t you want me to one day marry and have a family of my own? Don‘t you want to perhaps have grandchildren, one day? Don‘t you want me to have a fulfilled life?"

His mother‘s eyes softened as they traced over his face.

"Of course", she said, "of course I want that for you."

Victor held her gaze, breathless, expectant, as she thought.

"Alright", she finally said, "Alright. Let us find a new home to settle into, and then… you can travel."

Victor‘s shoulders sagged with relief and he felt a grin spreading on his face. He would travel! He‘d be able to see Yuuri again! He could hardly wait to tell Yuuri all about it in his next letter, but for now he picked up his fork again and devoted himself to his supper with a renewed appetite. He hardly noticed that his mother on the other side of the table barely ate anything at all.

His mother remained subdued for the rest of the evening, seeming distracted in her thoughts and tired after their discussion, excusing herself to go to bed early. 

Victor didn‘t think much of it at the time, though he did notice later, looking back over her behaviour in the past days, how little she had eaten, how restless and at once without energy she had been, how often she was lost in thought, her brow creased in worry. But by then, it was too late.

The next morning after their discussion, he was roused by his mother‘s maid as she came into his room in an agitated state. Victor, like his mother, was in the habit of rising early, but on this day he had taken his time in getting out of bed, languishing under the covers lost in thoughts of his travels and how he would be able to see Yuuri again. But then his daydreams were interrupted, and he stumbled out of bed rather hastily to his mother‘s chambers.

She was ill, the maid had said, and when she had come to Mrs. Nikiforov‘s chambers at the usual time, she had not been able to rouse her—she seemed too weak to get out of bed.

Worry clenched in Victor‘s stomach as he entered his mother‘s rooms—her health had been poor for most of his life, preventing her from travelling or socialising much, but it had been a rare occasion that she was ill enough to not get out of bed and go about her day. 

It was now that her behaviour over the last few days and weeks seemed much more disconcerting, as he knelt beside her bed and softly tried to wake her up.

Mrs. Nikiforov barely reacted to her son‘s voice, turning her head weakly with a distressed noise slipping from her lips, but she did not open her eyes nor seem to be really aware of his presence. Her hand, when Victor grasped for it, was weak and cool against his skin.

He sent for the village surgeon at once, waiting for him by his mother‘s bedside, hoping that he would be able to help his mother‘s recovery the way he did Yuuri‘s.

The surgeon, upon examining her, declared that her heart had been weakened by some distress, and ordered strict bed rest and quiet so that she might regain her strength. 

Victor thanked him kindly and sent him on his way. This day, and the next several, Victor did not take his lessons, nor did he go to the shipyard. Instead, he sat by his mother‘s bedside, overseeing her rest, soothing her as best as he was able when she showed signs of distress in her swoon. 

This day, and the next several, his mother did not improve. Yakov visited every day to check on his old friend and his young student, and each time Victor questioned him about what may have brought on his mother‘s illness, what caused her distress of the last weeks. Yakov, however, remained vague in his answers and steadfast in his refusal to say any more. 

When a few days had come and gone without any improvement and the village doctor could still offer no other remedy than rest, Victor, upon Yakov‘s suggestion, telegraphed to Bristol for another doctor, hoping that the city physician may have some other wisdom to offer.

The doctor‘s verdict, when he arrived, was dire; indeed it was Mrs. Nikiforov‘s heart that had suffered, but the issue would have required treatment as soon as it was discovered. Now, a few days having passed, there was nothing more that could be done; Mrs. Nikiforov‘s days were numbered.

So it came about that at the end of the month of June, Victor shed the first bitter tears of his life at his mother‘s deathbed, clutching her lifeless hand in his own, all thoughts of letters and travel and London far away from his mind.


	9. the hollowness within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a few more minutes’ futile searching, Yakov found him eventually in the garden, sitting on the bench underneath the big lime tree, Makkachin leaning up close to him and Victor‘s hands buried in her fur.
> 
> He made no move to acknowledge Yakov except the slightest incline of his head when Yakov took a seat at the other end of the bench.
> 
> "How are you doing today, Vitya?", he asked, and, predictably, he did not receive a response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thanks to my beta readers, [Zjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose) and [Harky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harky21)!
> 
> And as you may have noticed, I have indeed decided to keep this story going until the end of the first story arc, which at my current plan should be another 5 or 6 chapters. I think the end of that arc is a good stopping point for me and you guys both, because it will reveal some of the secrets and provide some closure. Thank you for sticking around and for your understanding. 💜

_… That his name, unless I was very much mistaken, was Andrei Nikiforov._

_My husband took a few minutes to compose himself and subsequently shared with me his plan for our next actions, which we then executed thus: darkness having fallen early on our vessel due to the tempest surrounding it, the passengers retreated to their cabins early when the cargo had been cleaned up. The sailors still being employed one and all in the handling of the ship, it was quiet below decks, a quiet that my husband and I used to drag between the two of us the dreadful body to a concealed nook in a passage near Andrei‘s cabin, which thankfully wasn‘t far from our own. Having concealed it from view, as we hoped, behind some heavy bags of grain, we then set about to clear up the disarray left in the cabin after the struggle. Thus, all appeared as normal when, a little later, Nanny brought our child back to us for the night as was usual, for it was crucial that our routine should appear as undisturbed as possible. After Nanny had retreated to her own shelter in the servant‘s room, having bid us good night, I remained in the cabin with you, my eldest, held tightly in my arms, while your father went out to brave the night once more._

_Having not witnessed it myself I can give no account of what he did next except to repeat what he had told me when he returned. He‘d gone out to the nook where we had earlier concealed the body and, making sure that there was no one around to witness it, had dragged it out and arranged it to lie sprawled over the floor of the passage._

_Then, passing up a moment when the ship gave a particularly big heave in the storm, he gave a pile of cargo stored in that passage a good shove, having beforehand loosened the ropes and nets that were meant to keep it in place, so that it tumbled all over, much like it had done earlier in the day, and half concealed the body under its weight. Then my husband hurried back to our cabin, lest someone should see him there at the scene…_

* * *

Yakov was concerned about Victor.

It was not a new worry; ever since Mrs. Nikiforov’s sudden illness and death, Yakov had been watching over Victor closely, trying to help guide him through his grief.

It was not an easy task, not least since Yakov was also fighting his own grief at the same time; Mrs. Nikirofov had been a dear friend to him for more than ten years. They had seen each other nearly every day, had shared confidences and discussed their interests, had practically raised Vitya together from a boy to a man. Now his dear old friend was gone, and Yakov was left in the lurch. Suddenly his days were so different, his meals quieter, his reading less enjoyable for not having anyone with whom to discuss it. Yakov had always been a man of habit, and, even disregarding the pain that the sudden loss brought with it, the unexpected change of pace left him unbalanced, struggling to regain his footing.

And that was if he only had himself to consider.

But then there was Victor.

Victor, who was still so young and should not yet have to mourn the loss of his only remaining parent. Victor, who, despite the unhappy circumstances of his mother, had never known a day’s suffering in his life thanks to her protection, and had thus never known the pain of loss and the helplessness of one left behind. He had always been a happy child, a happy youth, a happy man, his temper only rarely marred by some restlessness, some discontent at the unchanging circumstances of his life. He was quite unused to dealing with a situation as jarring, as entirely life-altering as this one, quite unable to cope with the pain.

Yakov did what he could, trying to console the boy, to be a pillar of support to him in these times, as much out of his own affection for him as out of a sense of duty to his old friend. But it was not made easier by the rift that had opened up between them in the weeks leading up to Mrs. Nikiforov’s death. The rift that had cracked open when Yakov had, out of concern for Victor and as a favour to his friend, advised Yuuri Katsuki to leave Blue Anchor. The rift which had widened when Yakov had refused, remembering his promise to Mrs. Nikiforov, to reveal the reason for her distress to her son when she fell sick. The rift that seemed to impossibly widen when he held onto that promise even after her demise, unable to give Victor any kind of explanation for his mother’s untimely death that might provide him with some closure. 

But Yakov had made a promise, and he intended to honour it, especially since he did not know enough about the secrets hidden in her past to quiet Victor’s anxiety, rather than add to it by revealing the knowledge of some nebulous misconduct and the threat of blackmail by a stranger.

In consequence of his decision, however, he struggled to get through to Victor, who had retreated into himself at his mother’s death and refused to let anyone close to him in his pain. Yakov visited him daily where he was shut up on his own in a house that was now too empty, but Victor often refused to see him, or else lashed out at him and any attempt at comfort. He no longer went to the shipyard, he neglected his correspondence—even with Yuuri Katsuki, which Yakov observed with a strange mixture of relief and concern.

At first, he tried to believe that it was only a question of time. The loss of a parent was a hard one, and Victor just needed time to heal, time to grieve before he could face the thought of picking up his life again.

But as the weeks passed and Victor showed no signs of improving, no signs of his listlessness, so uncharacteristic of the usually so energetic young man, receding, Yakov realised that there was something else needed, some outside impulse required to rouse Victor from the slump in which he was stuck. 

These were Yakov’s considerations as he approached Victor once more, previous attempts having remained unsuccessful: questions about Victor’s yacht had garnered none of his usual enthusiasm, an inquiry about the well-being of his newfound friend only got him snide remarks, seeing as he had been the one to separate them in the first place.

This time, Yakov decided to attempt a different approach, to appeal to another side of Victor’s character. 

Late in the afternoon one blinding hot late summer’s day, Yakov knocked on the door of the house that had now become Victor’s. The servant let him in, but Victor did not come to greet him, nor did the servant seem to be sure where he could be found. Yakov took it upon himself to check the drawing room and the study, even cast a careful glance into Mrs. Nikiforov’s chambers, all without success. Could Victor possibly have gone out? If so, it would sure signify a step forward, but then the servant would surely have known. 

After a few more minutes’ futile searching, Yakov found him eventually in the garden, sitting on the bench underneath the big lime tree, Makkachin leaning up close to him and Victor‘s hands buried in her fur.

He made no move to acknowledge Yakov except the slightest incline of his head when Yakov took a seat at the other end of the bench.

"How are you doing today, Vitya?", he asked, and, predictably, he did not receive a response.

Yakov sighed.

"Won‘t you talk to me? he asked, "I know you‘re in pain. I don’t know how to help you.“

Victor scoffed, a noise so small that it almost got lost between the rustling of the leaves and Makkachin‘s slight panting in the summer heat.

"You know exactly what—"

"I told you, Vitya", Yakov hurriedly replied, "nothing I could tell you would…", he sighed again. "I don‘t want to start this argument again. But there must be something you need. Something you want to do."

He waited, giving Victor time to collect his thoughts, but no reply was forthcoming.

"How about a trip?", he finally prompted, "We could take out that yacht of yours, explore the islands? You‘ve been looking forward to that."

Victor pulled his head further between his shoulders.

"She‘s not ready", he said. 

"Well, then take a couple of weeks", Yakov said, "finish her up. And then we‘ll take her out. Together."

"I don‘t…", Victor started, and he swallowed, his throat moving visibly, "I don’t think I can, Yakov. It‘s too hard."

"What is?", Yakov asked gently, or at least as gently as he was able, "Working? Travelling? Leaving Blue Anchor?"

Victor didn‘t reply, only pulling Makkachin a little closer to his chest. The poodle bore it patiently, licking gently at Victor‘s chin in comfort.

Yakov fell silent for a few minutes, thinking. There had to be another way to draw the boy out of this listlessness.

"It doesn‘t have to be the yacht", he finally said, weighing his words carefully. "We could still take a trip by the conventional means. Go to Paris, perhaps. Didn‘t you always want to go to Paris?"

"I did", Victor said in a whisper, "But I always thought it would be…"

Again, he broke off and, when he didn‘t seem to be inclined to say more, Yakov prodded gently.

"You thought your mother would be with you?"

Victor closed his eyes, his face contorting into a grimace of pain.

"Perhaps", he choked out, his voice hoarse, "perhaps not. I know she didn‘t like to travel, I didn‘t expect… but I thought I would be able to write to her, at least. Tell her of all I‘ve seen. And then I‘d come back and tell her the most wonderful stories. It‘d be like she was there herself. I always thought— I—", he bit his lip hard for a moment before continuing, "I always thought it would be a happy occasion. Not… this."

"I know, Vitya", Yakov said, "I know it‘s difficult to get used to the thought of doing it without her. But she wouldn‘t want you to put your life on hold."

Victor grimaced again.

"Isn‘t that just what she wanted, though? She wanted me to stay put. To be safe. I never wanted to listen to her when she was alive. Perhaps now it‘s time that I do."

"Vitya…", Yakov looked at him, tracing the grief etched into his young features, "this is not what she wanted. She wanted the best for you. She wanted you to be happy. Yes, she was very cautious, but… there‘s no reason for you not to travel. And I‘ll be with you, if… if you want me there. And your old tutor will make sure that you stay safe. You know I want to stay true to her wishes as much as you do."

Victor said nothing, but he also did not protest any more. Yakov decided to venture a little further.

"We could go and visit Lilia in Paris. She could show us around the best ballets and shows in the city, introduce us to the society there. You know she always liked you."

Victor gave a little huff, a humourless laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

"If I recall correctly she called me a headstrong, heedless little rascal last time we met."

Yakov gave him a small smile.

"A high compliment coming from Lilia. Believe me. She would be happy to see you again."

Victor tilted his head down, carding his fingers through Makkachin‘s fur.

"I don‘t know, Yakov", he whispered, "it just… it feels like running away. It‘s so soon."

Yakov shook his head. "It‘s not running away, Vitya. It‘s just… gaining some distance. Some perspective. And when you‘re ready, and you‘re not so raw with hurt anymore, you can return to Blue Anchor. Your house and your yacht and all your memories will still be here. And you can pick up your life here again, if you wish, or you can decide to move on to somewhere you‘re more comfortable. It‘s up to you."

There was still doubt in Victor‘s face; still, he hesitated to reply. 

With a sigh, Yakov decided to go for broke.

"We could stop in London on our way to Paris, you know. Take a few days there in a hotel."

It took a few moments for the implication to settle in, but when it did, Victor lifted his head a little.

"London?", he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"Why not?", Yakov said, "You were planning to go to London anyway, were you not, before all this?"

"I was", Victor said carefully, "but I didn‘t think you would approve."

Yakov cleared his throat. "Of London? Why would I not approve? It is our fine nation‘s capital, is it not?", he said, trying to keep his voice as sincere as he could.

"Yakov", Victor said, "You know what I mean. I didn‘t think you‘d approve of my going to see Yuuri."

"I…" Yakov hesitated, trying to find a diplomatic turn of phrase. "You are a grown man, Vitya. And you‘re no relation to me, though I do feel… ah, the point is, I cannot dictate who you should or should not spend your time with. Truth be told, most of my interference in the matter was as a favour to your mother."

Victor‘s gaze darkened again for a moment, then he looked at Yakov out of the corner of his eyes.

"So… you don‘t dislike Yuuri? You won‘t tell me not to see him when we‘re in London?"

Yakov pressed his lips together, considering. He was disinclined to lie, but he also did not want to turn Victor against him again, now that they had established a rapport of sorts.

But the truth was, as much as he thought that Mrs. Nikiforov‘s caution had been… overzealous, and he did not, in principle, object to Victor befriending people from different ways of life, he could not honestly say that he liked Mr. Katsuki.

He was not without conflict in the matter—it was plain to see that Mr. Katsuki was well-read and intelligent, and humble to a fault. He certainly appeared to be a genuine friend to Victor and his devotion and thankfulness to the latter was touching to see. 

But at the same time, Mr. Katsuki did not make it easy to like him. With anyone who wasn‘t Victor, his demeanour was reticent to the point of appearing sullen, his nervous habits and the way he would avoid meeting your eye did not speak in favour of his character. The way he outright refused to speak of his relations and his past was suspicious, to say the least, and though Yakov would be hard pressed to believe there were ulterior motives to his friendship with Victor, one couldn‘t deny that his circumstances did not speak in his favour.

However, this was the first time since his mother‘s death that Yakov had heard anything like hope, like anticipation in his student‘s voice, and he was too relieved to find it not to encourage it.

"I do not know him well enough to like him or dislike him", Yakov finally said diplomatically, "but I do want to believe that if I got to know him better, I would find no fault in his character."

Victor‘s expression brightened a little at that, almost in the same way it had whenever he had spoken of Mr. Katsuki before his mother‘s death. It was a little dull still, but Yakov hadn‘t seen him this animated in weeks.

"I am certain you would be great friends if you only had a chance to know him! I know he is not a very active conversationalist at first, but it is only his naturally quiet disposition. Once you get to know him, I promise, you would see all the other facets there are to his character."

"Well, perhaps I shall get the chance soon", Yakov said.

Victor, falling quiet again, looked out over the garden, his eyes clouding over once more.

"I will have to write to him", he said, almost a whisper, "Oh dear… I have not been a very good friend to him lately, have I? And after I promised him, too…"

Hesitantly, Yakov reached out, laying a reassuring hand on Victor‘s arm, relieved when he didn‘t move away from the touch.

"I am sure he will understand. Your circumstances have been extraordinary. He will find it easy to forgive."

Victor nodded slowly. Then he turned his head and finally met Yakov‘s eyes openly.

"Thank you", he said.

* * *

That evening, after Yakov had gone home and the house seemed too empty and too dark once more, Victor wandered into the study.

The evenings were the worst of it, those hours after supper that he used to spend in his mother‘s company, conversing, playing cards, reading together… this was when he missed her most dearly. This was when her absence felt like a physical pain to him, like a void tearing at his limbs, taking him apart.

Most days, he‘d been spending these hours cuddled up with Makkachin in tears, or retiring to bed early, tossing and turning, trying in vain to fall asleep in a house that felt too quiet. 

Tonight, however, rather than sitting in the empty drawing room or retreating to his bedroom, he found himself in the study, looking down upon his desk.

With the haze of pain that the last few weeks had been, he couldn‘t quite recall what had become of his correspondence with Yuuri. He vaguely recalled that Yuuri had kept writing to him faithfully even when he didn‘t have the time or energy to respond any more, even though Victor wasn‘t sure he‘d even opened all of the letters. He couldn‘t say if there had been any more letters recently, the servant having taken to just leaving any non-urgent correspondence on Victor‘s desk, knowing that he was not going to read them with his breakfast or his tea.

Victor sorted through these now, collecting the ones that bore Yuuri‘s careful and meticulous handwriting on the front. There was a handful of them and indeed one whose seal had not even been broken yet. Victor sank down thoughtfully in his chair and, sorting the open letters by their date, he started to read.

An hour later he was still sitting, staring down at Yuuri‘s last letter in his hand. 

It was dated almost four weeks back. 

He‘d kept rereading it, tracing his eyes over the words until he knew them by heart, and each time they broke his heart a little more. What it must have cost Yuuri to pen it, so much kindness and understanding in every word and yet so much pain hidden between the lines.

Yuuri must have thought all he‘d feared had become true; that Victor had forgotten about him, turned away from him like he seemed to expect everyone in his life to. Had decided that he was not worthy of Victor‘s attention, had judged him for standing up to a bully and defending himself and his friend.

Victor didn‘t even begin to know how to make it right.

He knew, logically, that Yuuri would forgive him immediately if he explained his circumstances, would not even consider there to be anything to forgive. He knew his circumstances had been extraordinary in the last few months, more than enough to justify the change in his behaviour. And yet, he could not help but feel he needed to make it up to Yuuri somehow. 

He determined then that he would make sure he and Yakov could make their way to London as quickly as possible so that he could make amends to Yuuri in person. He knew he would do better to announce his visit with a letter, but the thought of having to put his thoughts and his remorse and all that had happened over the last month into writing was too overwhelming to even consider.

Having to try and pour his grief out onto the paper… no. He had Yuuri‘s address; he could just go and call on him when they were in London. It would be a surprise. A happy one, he hoped.

And then he could explain everything to Yuuri, and they could make up. Yuuri could show him around London, perhaps they could go see a play or the ballet together, just as they had been planning before all this. It still made Victor’s heart feel heavy and hard with grief, the thought of doing these things that now felt suddenly so frivolous in the wake of his mother’s death. But perhaps, if he didn’t have to do it alone, if there was someone there with him…

Someone he trusted.

And he did trust Yuuri, regardless of how short their acquaintance, their friendship, had been. More than ever now, carefully clutching Yuuri’s last letter in his hands, he was convinced of it: no matter what Yakov or his mother or anyone else thought, he could trust Yuuri. Could trust the man who had been mindful of his boundaries from the start, who respected his wishes and acted only in Victor’s best interest, even when it was hurting Yuuri himself.

No, he thought, tenderly folding up the letter and, rather than putting it back on the table along with the others, tucking it safely into the inside pocket of his waistcoat. Yuuri would never deceive him.


	10. thoughts race by like the scene outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once the decision was made, it only took Victor and Yakov a couple of days to get everything ready for their journey. 
> 
> They packed their bags and sent to London for hotel reservations and to Paris to inform Lilia of their impending visit. Victor informed the butler of his itinerary, entrusting him rather reluctantly with the care of Makkachin for the time being, and let him know how he could be reached at each station of his journey in case of any urgent news. Yakov, meanwhile, found someone to stand in for his duties as a magistrate until he returned.
> 
> And then they were on the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thanks to my beta readers, [Zjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose) and [Harky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harky21)!
> 
>  **Edit 27/06/20:** So sorry, I completely forgot to add the CW for this chapter last night! I hope no one was caught off guard! There's briefly some implied/referenced physical abuse in this chapter, see end notes for details.

_… Then my husband hurried back to our cabin, lest someone should see him there at the scene._

_We stayed hidden in our cabin for the rest of the night, and only in the early hours of the morning did someone discover the supposed tragic accident and came knocking on our door, our friendship with Andrei (or the man he had been posing as) having been well-known and him not having had any other associates aboard the ship. So we were informed in grave tones of the accident our dear friend had suffered, and affected our distress and grief accordingly—though I must say there was not much affectation to it on my part. I was, in fact, grieving the loss of the dear friend I thought I had had for almost two years, and was still highly distressed by the events as they had taken place._

_It seemed, however, that no one on the ship seriously questioned the fate that appeared to have befallen our friend. Certainly, there was superstition among the crew and gossip among the passengers, as there always is, particularly in such confined spaces with such limited topics of conversation. Andrei, it appeared, had not affected the same affable personality with everyone as he had done with us in order to gain our trust, and had not been particularly well-liked by many of the other travellers that had been in closer contact with him. But it did not appear that anyone seriously suspected us of any ill, though we were somewhat shunned for the short rest of the journey, as though there was some miasma of bad luck or misery around us, which may have certainly held true for me..._

* * *

Yuuri hadn‘t been expecting anything out of the ordinary to happen on this day.

For the last three months or so, his life had fallen into a certain routine that he now rarely broke. After he had settled into his life and job in London, it had all become a new kind of normalcy for him that he had never really known before: He woke up in the morning and made tea. He sat down to eat a simple breakfast prepared by his landlady. Every day he waited for the morning mail to bring him a letter, in vain.

He spent the rest of the morning working over his articles, sorting through his thoughts on the previous evening‘s performances to shape them into the semblance of a coherent review. He did most of his work at home, sending in the completed drafts via messenger to the magazine‘s office. Only rarely was he required to go in personally.

He took his lunch in a pub, more often than not the same one: the Castle Inn, just down the street from his lodgings. Not only was it convenient and the food was good, the owners, a young married couple, were also very friendly and, hailing from the colonies themselves, had never looked at Yuuri with suspicion when he‘d taken to coming into their establishment. He read the newspaper with his lunch, taking his time. 

Since his work kept him occupied in the evenings, he rarely worked in the afternoons, unless he was late about finishing a review. So he spent the afternoons reading or dozing in his chair, or sometimes he whiled away his time with Phichit, if he was free as well. 

Sometimes, when the long hours of sitting hunched over a desk or a book got to him, he‘d push his coffee table to the side and dance. He didn't have any music, but he didn't need it; he never had. The music was right there in his head and his bones, moving him. 

He was never sure how he felt about dancing when he did it; he went into it with a mixture of anticipation, dread and sheer habit. But he had yet to regret doing it after the fact.

The exercise and the pleasure of movement always made him feel warm and tempered the apprehension fluttering in his stomach. After all, it was only the memories connected with that time of his life that made him shirk the experience of dance, made him recoil from the idea of sharing it with any other person.

But dance itself—it was without judgement, it wasn't in itself good or bad, wasn't kind or unkind. It merely was.

A system of rules, a set of movements, routine and discipline. 

When he danced, he was a pendulum, fathoming his depths, settling himself.

Still, he couldn't help anticipating a harsh blow to his ankles, his wrists, whenever he misstepped, even if it was in the privacy of his own home.He didn't flinch—flinching would only make the blow more vicious, he knew—but still he braced himself, setting his face into something harder that would not show any sign of pain. 

It was still strange to find his legs and wrists without bruises the next day.

He did not dance every day—couldn't quite manage to face it every day—but he liked the habit of it, the old, familiar routine.

When the evening rolled around, he made himself up to look suitable for the evening‘s performances. He was still assigned to the less prestigious theatres and companies, but yet there was a certain dress code and an expectation of respectability that went with every attendance of a performance.

With his first few wages, he had expanded his wardrobe, and now had a small selection of evening attire; modest, but entirely appropriate, of which he selected one each evening. 

(And still every evening before he left, he waited for the evening post to bring him a letter—in vain.)

He left his apartment when the Londoner night-life began to awaken, and attended his performances, one, sometimes two in a night, an early and a late set. He‘d even gotten to see one of Phichit‘s plays by now, and had been thrilled to be able to give him a raving and entirely truthful review.

Afterwards, he went straight home to his small, empty apartment; not daring any more experiments after that first time he had gone out with Phichit and the disaster it had ended in. Once home, he read until late in the night, as it had been his custom from the moment he‘d had access to books, more often than not reading until he nodded off over the pages, in hopes that it would save him the hours of tossing and turning in bed, trying in vain to find any sleep. 

It worked well enough, though still he sometimes woke up suddenly with a rush of anxiety beating rapidly through his heart, the book resting on his chest feeling like the weight of an anchor, pulling him down. He never remembered what it was that had made him rouse from his sleep; there were not any nightmares that he could recall, nor specific memories to grasp onto. Just the weight of fear clinging to his heart and mind, choking him.

If he was lucky, he‘d be able to go to sleep again in the small hours of the morning, when he had calmed his pulse and his breathing, though sometimes he just resigned himself to lie awake until dawn broke outside his window.

Sometimes, when he was weak, he spent these hours against his better judgement rereading the few letters he had received from Victor, trying to find in them some indication of why his correspondence had suddenly ceased. The information contained in the letters, though, did not change, nor could Yuuri decipher any hidden messages or concealed subtext in them.

Sometimes he just buried himself in his book, hoping to find some brief escape from the weight of the world.

In the morning he got up, and the whole cycle started over again.

But not on this day. This particular day, though it started ordinarily enough, was the beginning of a turn in Yuuri‘s life that he had never expected.

* * *

Once the decision was made, it only took Victor and Yakov a couple of days to get everything ready for their journey. 

They packed their bags and sent to London for hotel reservations and to Paris to inform Lilia of their impending visit. Victor informed the butler of his itinerary, entrusting him rather reluctantly with the care of Makkachin for the time being, and let him know how he could be reached at each station of his journey in case of any urgent news. Yakov, meanwhile, found someone to stand in for his duties as a magistrate until he returned.

And then they were on the road.

It was a long time since Victor had last travelled beyond Bridgewater—not since he and Yakov had taken that trip to Oxford and Cambridge a few years back, in fact. It was as thrilling as he remembered, sitting on the train and watching the scenery race past outside, the great rumbling of the steam engine, the black plume of smoke trailing past the windows. He watched Somersetshire passing and then the green hills of WIltshire undulating, peppered with forests and villages, then Hampshire and Surrey, until they finally reached the outskirts of London, all bricks and chimneys, dense, dark smoke.

Victor and Yakov didn’t speak much on their journey, neither of them inclined to talk much, Yakov by nature and Victor by mood. Leaving Blue Anchor behind had filled Victor with mixed feelings that he was attempting to sort through as he watched the landscape slide by, but he couldn't deny that his excitement mounted as they closed in on London‘s centre. He sat up in his seat, scanning the streets and stations they passed with renewed interest, as if it would be possible for him to spot Yuuri among the masses of people living in the capital.

They arrived in the bustle of Victoria Station early in the evening, and thence took a hansom to their hotel. Yakov, tired from the long journey, retreated to rest for a few hours, and waved Victor off with a gruff word when Victor was unable to conceal his impatience to go out into the busy city. They would meet again in a few hours for dinner, along with Yuuri, if he was amenable.

So, Victor caught another hansom outside the hotel and gave the driver Yuuri’s address in Pimlico. The drive took a little while, and Victor spent it once again watching the people hurry past in the bustle of the big city. It was so rare that Victor had seen so many people from so many different walks of life in one place, everyone going about their business, barely paying any attention to the rest. He wondered if he would find Yuuri at his home—and if he did, how Yuuri would react to seeing him. He had purposefully not allowed himself to consider the possibility that Yuuri might not _want_ to see him up until now. That Yuuri might send him away the way Yuuri himself had been sent away—granted, not by Victor himself, but still… 

He knew he hardly had a reason to feel so attached to Yuuri after so short a time, but the truth was, just as much as Yuuri acted like no one had ever offered him basic human kindness and friendship, so Victor, too, did not have any friends to call his own.

He’d had his mother, and then there was Yakov, who still treated him too much like a teacher his student to be a true friend. And Makkachin. Beyond that… sure, he got along fine with the journeymen and -women at the shipyard; he could talk to them about ship building and sailing for hours on end. But that was all they ever talked about, and Victor did not have a connection that went beyond work with even one of them. Yuuri was the only person with whom he had been able to converse so freely and so deeply.

He really needed to make amends—needed to try, at least, and hope that Yuuri would find some forgiveness in him. Perhaps then they could start over. Could figure out what they were to each other, what they could be, without the interference of others. 

Perhaps Victor would start by taking Yuuri out to the ballet. To a real one, too; full ensemble and full orchestra and the whole nine yards. He wanted to be able to give Yuuri the experience he had clearly been dreaming of for so long. It would not come cheap, but Victor was not concerned about that. It would be worth it, for Yuuri.

Besides, with his mother’s inheritance at his disposal now, money had become less of a worry. Despite being the son of a nobleman and a noblewoman, Victor had not grown up particularly prosperous. Both his parents had been estranged from their respective families, and in his mother’s case, being the younger child, did not have a claim to a title. He did not know much about his father, and his mother had rarely talked about him, but Victor knew with his father’s death the small family had only had his mother’s dowry to live off. It had been enough for the both of them in the modest life that they led; enough that they could afford a butler and a maid for their home, enough that Yakov could be paid for his services through the years (though Victor suspected he had not taken a payment for his work in a long time now), enough that Victor could work at the shipyard more for the enjoyment of it than the need for money.

Now that his mother wasn’t around any longer and her money had come into his possession, it would be enough for him to keep on the house in Blue Anchor for the time being and cover his expenses while travelling without having to worry about making ends meet. Securing two tickets to the ballet for himself and Yuuri would not put too sizeable a dent in his finances. Besides, it would be worth it, if he could put a smile on Yuuri’s face in the process.

By the time the driver stopped at the address Victor had given him, Victor’s heart was racing in anticipation. He wondered if that sweet familiar face was waiting behind the bricks of the terraced house as he paid the driver and climbed down from the hansom. He wondered if Yuuri, true to his words, was still ready to pick up their friendship again even after Victor’s long silence, or if he had—quite rightly—decided that he wouldn’t just accept this kind of treatment. Hurrying up the few steps to the front door, Victor took a deep breath, scanning the names of the occupants listed by the door, his stomach clenching painfully when he discovered “Y. Katsuki” among them.

He rang the bell.

After a little while, the door swung inwards and Victor looked down upon an elderly woman with harsh lines etched into her face around her eyes and mouth, scowling up at him. She wore a modest black dress and her hair tied cleanly back. 

“Can I help you?”, she asked, looking him up and down, and he had the distinct impression she was very quickly and quietly appraising his estimated net worth.

Victor cleared his throat.

“Good afternoon!”, he said, keeping his voice friendly, “I’m here to call upon Mr. Yuuri Katsuki. Would you let him know… ah”, he interrupted himself, patting down his pockets for a piece of paper and a pen. He did not have calling cards, never having had use for them until now, nor did he have anything to write a note on. “Would you just let him know it’s Victor Nikiforov here to see him? I’d be most grateful”, he finally finished a bit awkwardly.

The landlady let out a sigh of the heavily put-upon, but she nodded. “Alright”, she said, “I shall see if he’s in.”

She turned away, leaving the door half open and laboured up the stairs among groans and mutters. Fidgeting, Victor waited impatiently until she returned a couple of minutes later, to his disappointment, alone. 

“He’s not in”, was all she said by way of explanation. 

Victor wrung his hands desperately. “Would you happen to know where I could find him, or when he might return?”

She gave him another long, considering look, seemingly unsure how much information to trust him with, but finally she gave a shrug. “It is usually his custom to be home in the afternoon. But since he’s not here, he might have taken a long lunch. You could check in the public down the street. The Castle Inn. That’s where he often takes his lunch.”

Victor flicked his gaze in the direction she had indicated with a jerk of her head; he could see the pub’s sign in the distance even from here.

“I thank you”, he said, giving her a deep nod and a smile, before hurrying off, down the stairs and along the street.

He entered the Castle Inn a few minutes later. Lunchtime was already well over, so the pub was fairly empty. It was dark inside after coming in from the afternoon light outside, but the space was clean and inviting. A young woman behind the bar with brown hair pinned up and a practical apron around her waist gave him a smile and a chipper welcome which Victor returned distractedly, his eyes already wandering around the room. There were only a handful of people scattered around the tables and at the bar, drinking beer, having late lunches, reading the paper. But none of them, Victor could tell at a glance, were Yuuri. He swallowed down his disappointment and approached the bar, making eye contact now with the woman tending it. 

“Welcome to the Castle Inn, what can I get you?”, she asked when she came over, leaning on the counter her friendly demeanour jarring after the landlady’s reluctance.

Victor ordered a lager and watched her pull the beer from the keg, sliding it across the bar for him.

“Anything else you need, you just call, won’t you, love?”, she said, already preparing to turn away.

“Actually”, Victor said, halting her in her steps, “there might be something you could help me with.”

She turned back toward him, looking at him expectantly, her eyebrows raised. 

Victor took a sip of his lager, wetting his lips, before he spoke again. “I’m here to visit a friend of mine, but we seem to have missed each other. I’m told he comes here often, though, so you might know him? His name is Yuuri Katsuki, he’s just a bit shorter than me—”

Before he could get any further, the young woman interrupted him. 

“Oh! Of course I know Yuuri!”

The prompt reply and the use of the first name caught Victor off guard, and he blinked at her. “You do?”

“Certainly! He’s been one of our best customers the last few months. Comes in almost every day for lunch. He’s so nice—you know, once I got him to actually talk to me. Always seemed to prefer his peace and quiet, but I’m sure you know that!”

“Of course”, Victor said, a bit lamely, an uncertain smile on his face. Before he could say anything else, however, the young woman continued.

“He’s opened up after a while though—well, at least enough for some casual conversation. His family’s from the colonies, you know, just like my husband and me!”

“Oh.” Victor was not proud of the relief that flooded through him at her words, even as there was a simultaneous sting of envy that Yuuri had told her about his family when Victor had never been able to get him to talk about them. “Well”, he cleared his throat, hoping to steer the conversation back on track, “do you have any idea where I might find him? Was he here today?”

“He was! He came in for lunch, as usual, and then”, the young woman stroked her chin, considering, “actually, it was a bit strange today. He usually takes his time over his lunch, reading the paper or perhaps a book of some sort, taking tea afterwards. But today, actually, he’d barely gotten started when he threw down his paper and stormed out in a hurry without even finishing his food. Like he had forgotten something.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

The woman shook her head. “He didn’t say anything, just barely stopped to pay for his meal before he was off. Really rather strange. I hope it was nothing too bad. But chances are he’ll be back tomorrow for lunch, if you want to try your luck again.”

Victor nodded and thanked her for her help, lost in thought. While he was sipping his lager, wondering about what she had said and considering his course of action, she kept chatting idly to him, some about Yuuri, but mostly about her husband and their three young daughters, which helped to soothe the irrational sting of jealousy Victor had felt somewhat. He scolded himself for it internally. He should be glad—and he _was_ glad—that Yuuri had found other friends and acquaintances here in London. He wished for Yuuri to be more connected to other people, to not lead such a singularly friendless life that the merest show of kindness from a stranger turned his world upside down. He wished for Yuuri to not have been too lonely in the months that Victor had been unable to be there for him like a friend should. He knew it wasn’t healthy for him to be the only person Yuuri had a connection with, and vice versa. 

But there was a deep, irrational part of him that had balked at hearing someone else use Yuuri’s first name so casually. As though Victor had any rights to be possessive over it, after how he had abandoned Yuuri to his doubts.

Finishing off his lager, Victor thanked the woman as sincerely as he could—she had been very friendly and very helpful after all—paid for his drink, and left the pub.

Hesitating for a moment at the door, he turned his steps back down the street. He felt a bit silly, ringing the doorbell once more, but he had been in the pub for more than half an hour. Perhaps Yuuri had returned in the meantime? It couldn’t hurt to at least check, except for the inevitable awkwardness when the landlady told him that no, Mr. Katsuki had indeed not returned within the last thirty minutes.

She was already about to close the door when Victor stopped her, an idea suddenly occurring to him. “What about Mr. Chulanont? Does he happen to be at home?”

The landlady raised an eyebrow at him. “How many of my lodgers do you know now, pray tell?”

“Just these two”, Victor said, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “Could you perhaps check? I would really appreciate it.” He tried giving her his friendliest and most charming smile, but she just kept on scowling as she shuffled away, back up the stairs.

She came shuffling back down shortly after, alone again, and Victor was already preparing for another disappointment, when hurried footsteps could be heard overhead, approaching down the stairs. The landlady didn’t say anything more as she went past the door and disappeared down the hallway, so Victor hovered uncertainly by the open door until a few seconds later a young man came bounding down the steps. He was about a head shorter than Victor, with dark hair and tan skin and a curious look on his face when he saw Victor standing in the door.

“Mr. Chulanont?”, Victor asked, and when the man nodded, he held out his hand for him to shake. “Pleasure to meet you, my name is Victor Nikiforov. I’m a friend of Mr. Katsuki’s, he’s told me so much about you.”

Mr. Chulanont raised his eyebrows in surprise at his words, but he took Victor’s hand. “Has he now?”, he said, “I’m sorry, I’m afraid he hasn’t mentioned you, Mr. Nikiforov. How do you know him?”

Victor’s heart sank. Had Yuuri really given up on him so thoroughly that he didn’t even tell his friend of him, when he had never failed to mention Mr. Chulanont in his letters to Victor? He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Ah, I don’t know how much he told you about his circumstances before he came to London, but he’d fallen ill a little while ago, back in Somersetshire where I live, so we met as he stayed in my village, recovering.”

“Ah!”, Mr. Chulanont said, and now his eyes brightened somewhat, his expression turning more friendly, “He did mention that he was ill, yes, and that there were very kind people taking care of him. He hadn’t mentioned any names, though. Can I ask what brings you here?”

Mr. Chulanont leaned against the door frame casually, tilting his head in question. 

“Mr. Katsuki and I had been corresponding since he left Blue Anchor, but circumstances led us to fall out of touch. Since I happened to be passing through London, I thought I might pay him a surprise visit, which… now that I think about it may have been a flawed plan, since he obviously is not here.” Victor gave a nervous laugh, clasping his hands behind his back to keep from fidgeting. “And, well, since he talked about you so fondly in his letters, I thought you might pass on a message when he returns? Let him know that I’m in London for a few more days and that he can reach me by message or personally at the Lilac Fairy Hotel. I would really appreciate it.”

“Alright”, Mr. Chulanont replied with an amused little grin, “I’ll make sure to pass on the message. Anything else?”

Victor hesitated, tempted for a moment to have Mr. Chulanont pass along his apologies, too, but Victor would much rather impress these on Yuuri personally. Mutely, he shook his head.

“Just this”, he then said, quietly, “please let him know.”

“I shall.” Mr. Chulanont straightened up, pushing away from the door jamb. “Now if you’d excuse me, I’ll have to get going soon if I want to make it to rehearsals on time.”

“Of course”, Victor replied, clearing his throat, “my apologies for taking up your time. It was nice to meet you.”

“Likewise”, Mr. Chulanont said, and Victor could see the ghost of a grin and a shake of his head as he turned away, closing the door behind him.

Victor sighed and let his eyes wander up and down the street one final time, foolishly hoping, before he went to find another hansom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW** : Implied/referenced physical abuse: Yuuri remembers briefly how he was punished for making mistakes when dancing by being beaten on the wrists/ankles by an unnamed character.


	11. your place here next to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You had a visitor today!”
> 
> Yuuri furrowed his brow, suddenly wary again. “A visitor?”
> 
> “Indeed! One Mr. Victor Nikiforov was here and asked after you.”
> 
> For a second, Yuuri stared at Phichit, slack-jawed. “Victor?” He sat up in his chair, suddenly wide awake again. “Victor was here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thanks to my beta readers, [Zjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose) and [Harky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harky21)!

_… as though there was some miasma of bad luck or misery around us, which may have certainly held true for me._

_The events kept their hold on me for the rest of the journey, bearing down on me with restless sleep and oppressive dreams, and I looked toward the end of our journey with fervour, ready to be away from this dreadful, fateful ship. However, my nerves were not to be settled; shortly before we reached port, we were approached by the first mate. He told us that the dead man‘s effects had been searched in order to find some evidence as to his next of kin that could be informed of his demise, since we had not been able to furnish him with that information. Among his things there were papers and letters, he said, not only indicating that his name was not in fact the one he had given upon booking his passage on the ship, but that he also appeared to have a wife and child in England. Whether we had been aware of his deceptive name and his relations? We were not, was the answer we provided, which was only half untrue: In the character of our friend, Andrei had never mentioned any family of his own, let alone a wife and child, seeing as to what the purpose of his association with us was. In his identity of Andrei Nikiforov, of course, I was aware that he had a wife that he had married after getting her with child._

_The first mate informed us that the wife should be sent for first thing after we reached England, and enquired whether we were willing to remain in Exmouth until she arrived, in order to talk with her in the character of her late husband‘s close friends, in order to provide some solace for the young widow, at least until it could be enquired if she or her husband had any other family to look after her. He felt, he informed us, uneasy at the thought of having to leave the widow with her young child to her own devices in dealing with her husband‘s passing, no matter how strange the circumstances…_

* * *

It was late in the night by the time Yuuri returned to his apartment that day. Heavy with exhaustion and mind still occupied with the day’s events, he crept up the stairs, mindful not to disturb the other tenants. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside and closed it behind himself, he leaned against the wood with a deep sigh. He felt the weight of the papers in his satchel against his hip and shook his head, still in disbelief. He stayed in that position for several minutes, trying to collect his thoughts, when a sudden knock on his door had him flinching violently away from the wood. 

Eyes wide and heart pounding, Yuuri stared at the door like he could somehow penetrate it with his gaze alone. Who would possibly want to come and see him at this time of night, and how had they gotten inside the building? Yuuri was certain he had locked the door behind himself as he got in. Swallowing, he grasped for his words. “Who is it?”

“It’s me!”, came a chipper voice from the other side of the door, and all the tension suddenly seeped out of Yuuri’s frame. He stumbled the two paces backwards to his soft chair and let himself fall into it, limbs heavy.

“Come in, Phichit.”

His visitor did as he was told, stepping inside and carefully closing the door behind him, a wide grin on his face that made Yuuri feel certain he was up to no good. Phichit crossed the living room to take a seat in the other chair and peered at Yuuri still grinning.

“You’re home late today! Any special plans?”

Yuuri shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face with a yawn. “Not really”, he said, “just had some paperwork to take care of with a solicitor, and then it took so long that I had to go catch the late set of today’s play.”

Phichit raised his eyebrows, his grin diminishing a little. “A solicitor?”, he asked, “Nothing serious, I hope?”

Yuuri waved his words off. Even if he had been inclined to discuss this with Phichit, he was way too tired to do it tonight. “Is there something the matter, for you to call so late?”

That must have been the wrong question, because Phichit’s grin returned in full force.

“You had a visitor today!”

Yuuri furrowed his brow, suddenly wary again. “A visitor?”

“Indeed! One Mr. Victor Nikiforov was here and asked after you.”

For a second, Yuuri stared at Phichit, slack-jawed. “Victor?” He sat up in his chair, suddenly wide awake again. “Victor was here?”

“He sure was! Said he wanted to surprise you. Seemed very disappointed at having missed you.” Phichit raised an eyebrow. “How come you didn’t tell me of your good friend you’d made in Somersetshire? Did you fear I might be too jealous over your affections?” He laid a hand on his chest in a mock gesture of hurt. “Don’t concern yourself over me, I can handle a bit of competition.”

Yuuri cleared his throat. “It’s not… it’s not like that, Phichit. He’s just… he was kind to me when I was ill, is all. Ah, did he say anything else?”

Phichit grinned knowingly. “He said he’d be in London for a few more days, and you could reach him by message or personally at the Lilac Fairy Hotel.”

Yuuri took a deep breath, trying to process this new information. Victor was here, in London, wanting to see him. Suddenly, after all the weeks of silence, after all the letters that had gone unanswered… he was here. He wanted to see Yuuri. He…. Yuuri barely dared to hope, but perhaps Victor didn’t hate him after all.

Phichit’s chuckle tore him from his thoughts and Yuuri looked up to see the other man shaking his head with a fond smile. “Well, that answers some questions I had about you, I suppose. But good for you, Yuuri. And I have to say, you do make quite a handsome pair.”

Yuuri could feel the heat rising into his face. “I told you, Phichit, it’s not like that. He’s just, ah, just a friend.”

Phichit laughed softly. “I’ll admit I don’t exactly know him well, but from what I saw today, I’m not sure he’d agree with that assessment.”

“No really, it’s not…”, Yuuri sighed, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “It’s not”, he said, more firmly. “You’ve seen him, Phichit. He’s… I’m not good enough for him. He’s a gentleman, and I’m…”, Yuuri hesitated, chewed up his words, swallowed. “I’m a vagabond. Nothing more.”

Phichit eyed him critically. “Are you, though? Yuuri, you’re a journalist for a respected magazine, and, gentleman or not, you are educated, intelligent and kind. Not to mention handsome. I see no reason at all why it shouldn’t work between you, if that is what you want.”

Yuuri shook his head with another defeated sigh. “You don’t know the whole story.”

“I’m sure I don’t”, Phichit said with a wry grin, slowly getting up from his chair. “Listen, it’s late, I’ll leave you to catch some sleep. It’s really none of my business, but you needn’t be so down on yourself. And whatever else there is between you, the man I met today… he clearly cares about you. That’s all I’m saying.”

Yuuri bit his lips, holding back any more arguments. It was pointless to discuss this further now, and he was tired. “Thank you for passing on the message, Phichit”, he finally said, “Have a good night.”

“You too.” And with a final encouraging smile, Phichit left Yuuri alone with his thoughts.

Despite the exhaustion that had by now settled deep in his bones, Yuuri remained in his chair long after Phichit had softly closed the door behind him. He tried to let the events of the day sink in, let them settle themselves in his mind as he tried to grasp their implications. He ran through different scenarios in his mind why Victor wanted to see him, what had interrupted their correspondence in the first place, what brought him to London now, even though Yuuri knew it was pointless to speculate until he had actually talked to Victor. He knew it was too late now to send a message to Victor’s hotel, but he would do it first thing in the morning, and then, hopefully, they could meet for lunch or tea and all of Yuuri’s questions would finally be answered.

That was the last thought that lingered in his mind as his eyes slid shut and he dozed off right there in his chair.

* * *

Victor could barely contain his excitement when he received Yuuri’s message the next morning. Yuuri had suggested that Victor visit him for tea in the afternoon, and Victor immediately sent back a note in the affirmative and then spent the rest of the morning vibrating with impatience. Yakov had to tell him multiple times to settle down as they strolled through Hyde Park together, and Victor’s pace and voice both rose with excitement whenever Yuuri came up. Yakov’s admonishments lacked their usual bite, though, and Victor wasn’t blind to the reason why.

Victor knew that Yakov was relieved to see him so lively again after the way grief had clung to him in the last few months, and if Victor was being honest, it felt strange to chat and laugh and stroll through the park like everything was alright with the world. But it hurt, in unexpected ways it _hurt_ being in London—in a way rather different than being in Blue Anchor had hurt. Seeing all those magnificent old buildings and churches, the endless rows of beautiful mansions in Mayfair; strolling through the park among the ladies and gentlemen of society showing off the latest fashions and their carriages… it filled Victor with a wave of regret with which he couldn’t quite grapple. It was so much easier to focus instead on the one thing he had to look forward to right now, so much easier to keep his thoughts on getting to see Yuuri again rather than contemplate the reason they had fallen out of touch in the first place.

He was a little earlier than their agreed upon time when he stood in front of Yuuri’s building, but Victor hoped it wouldn’t be held against him. He couldn’t possibly wait any longer to make amends. Taking a deep breath, he climbed the steps to the front door again and rang the bell.

Little later, the door was once more opened by the old landlady, peering at him in exasperation.

“I’m here to see Mr. Katsuki”, Victor said, a little breathless, “he’s expecting me, this time.”

The landlady nodded shortly with a grunt and opened the door wider so he could enter. “Third floor, on the left”, she mumbled then, and shuffled back down the hallway.

“Thank you”, Victor called after her, since it could never hurt to be friendly, and then bounded up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. Reaching the third floor landing, which appeared to be the top floor, he took a few seconds to catch his breath before turning toward the left and approaching the door to that side of the hallway. He could hear someone move around on the other side of the wood. Another deep breath and he knocked.

The sounds on the other side of the door stopped, then steps approached and the door opened. And there Yuuri was before him, eyes wide.

He looked more beautiful than Victor had seen him yet, in a dark suit of decent quality, fitting nicely on a frame that looked a lot more strong and healthy than the last time Victor had seen him. His hair was longer still, tied together at the nape of his neck, a pair of spectacles framing his eyes. 

“Victor”, Yuuri breathed, wonder in his voice like he did not quite believe that Victor was actually here, “you’re early.”

“I am”, Victor said a little lamely, hands clasped in front of his body, all of his excitement suddenly replaced by nerves and uncertainty. “I apologise, I hope it is not too inconvenient.”

“Ah, not at all”, Yuuri said, stepping aside, “please, come in.”

He closed the door and stood a pace or two behind Victor as Victor took in the space, a small parlour with soft chairs in one corner and a writing desk in another, a small stove with a kettle which stood next to a closed door that likely led to the bedroom. “It’s not much”, Yuuri said behind him, “but please make yourself at home.”

“I like it”, Victor said, surveying the surfaces that were entirely covered in books and papers and letters and a few copies of a magazine that must no doubt be Yuuri’s current workplace. Stepping further into the room, Victor turned around to face Yuuri. He took a deep breath, searching for the right words to begin his apology, but Yuuri beat him to it.

“My apologies for not being here to receive you yesterday. If I had known… ah, I didn’t mean to make you wait.”

“No, please”, Victor waved his words away, “it’s entirely my fault for not informing you of my visit ahead of time. I thought it was a good idea to surprise you, and the truth is… well.” Victor breathed deeply once more. “I wanted to apologise in person for the way I treated you the last few months. Not replying to your letters, it was not my intention… I never wanted to make you feel like I rejected you in some way.” Victor attempted to keep his voice level, but the words spilled out of him almost more quickly than he could follow. “I’m really sorry to have made you feel that way, and I hope you can forgive me my thoughtlessness. The truth is… I’m not trying to make excuses for my behaviour, but the truth is, the last few months…. I—” Victor stopped, his voice breaking on the last syllable as he felt hot tears suddenly well up in his eyes. “I’m so sorry”, he whispered, unable to give voice to his words, and covered his mouth with one hand, trying to compose himself.

“Victor?”, Yuuri asked, hesitant, stepping closer, “are you crying?”

Victor didn’t trust his voice enough to confirm or deny it, but it quickly became moot as the first tears fell. 

“Oh, Victor…”, Yuuri said, carefully brushing his hair away from his face, and Victor tried to get ahold of himself, he did, but suddenly Yuuri’s arms were around him, pulling him into a hug, and it was like a dam had broken. His body shaking with sobs, tears spilling freely, he leaned into Yuuri, his warmth, his soft voice murmuring vague words of comfort. He felt awful about putting this on Yuuri, to whom he had come to apologise, who should by all rights be mad at him, but suddenly it just overwhelmed him. Somehow, around Yuuri, it was too hard to keep up the mask he had been wearing for Yakov’s sake in the last week. 

Yuuri held him firmly, running a hand up and down his back as Victor spilled tears into his shirt, and it took a while for Victor to take control of his voice enough to sob into the crook of Yuuri’s neck: “My mother, she—she passed away, and I—”. This was as far as he got before Yuuri’s arms tightened further around him and he dissolved into tears once more.

“I’m so, so sorry for your loss, Victor”, Yuuri murmured close to his ear, and when Victor’s body grew heavy and his knees weak, he lowered them both carefully onto the carpet right where they were standing, and wrapped himself around Victor, rocking him slowly back and forth, whispering soothing words all the while. 

Victor lost track of time as he cried out all the hurt he hadn’t realised he was still holding. He’d thought that he had gotten through the worst of the grief—not that he would ever stop missing his mother or that it would ever stop hurting that she was gone, but he’d thought he’d waded through these big waves of grief that left him gasping for air and had come out the other side. Perhaps, as it turned out, the waves were just further apart now.

Yuuri held him and waited with extraordinary patience for Victor to collect himself, and it made Victor ache to be met with such kindness and understanding that he did not feel he deserved in the least.

When he finally caught his breath and his tears had dried, he lifted his head, looking up at Yuuri, who held his eyes with a soft, sad smile. Lifting one hand, Yuuri brushed Victor’s messy, damp fringe out of his face.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Victor, my condolences”, he whispered, “after what you’d written in your last letter I thought this might have happened, but I wasn’t sure if…. Anyway, there’s no need for you to apologise. I understand.”

Victor shook his head. “There is every need”, he said, voice still wavering, “I treated you poorly, and the fact that I had a reason for my behaviour doesn’t mean you don’t deserve better. You do, and I’m sorry.”

Yuuri turned his eyes away, looking down somewhere close to Victor’s shoulder, evading Victor’s earnest gaze.

“I told you”, he said with a shrug, “I told you I’d wait for you if you ever wanted to pick up our acquaintance again.”

“Well, you shouldn’t!”, Victor snapped, a little more forcefully than intended perhaps, and Yuuri looked up again, wide-eyed. “What I mean to say”, Victor continued quickly, holding on firmly to Yuuri’s arms, “is that you shouldn’t just accept any kind of behaviour just because you want to call a person friend. Not from me, nor from anyone else. You deserve to be treated respectfully, and you should demand better if you don’t receive that kind of treatment. Just because I treated you kindly once doesn’t mean I get a free pass to do whatever I feel like in the future.”

“I know that”, Yuuri mumbled, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown, “that’s not… that’s not what this is. I know that you would never cruelly—”

“You don’t, though!”, Victor interrupted him, “not really! I know you want to believe the best of me, and I appreciate that, I appreciate your trust but—…. I’m not trying to put you off me or anything. I just don’t want you to be hurt, by me or anyone else, because someone who is friendly one moment can still be cruel and hurtful another moment.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?”, Yuuri said, and there was something harder in his voice now, something that nearly made Victor flinch back. “Do you really think me so naive? Do you think I cannot tell the difference? I have known plenty of cruel and hurtful people in my life. Do you really think they were all cruel and hurtful from the first? Do you think I have not met the ones that are self-serving and false-faced, the ones who are kind only as long as it serves their purpose, the ones whose friendliness is a thin veneer covering their abuse?” He scoffed. “Believe me, I have known them all, and I have had to learn the difference whether I wanted to or not. So I appreciate your concern for me, Victor, but I can look after myself, and I know that whatever else you may be, you are not a cruel and hurtful person.”

Victor stared at Yuuri, wide-eyed, for a few long moments. There were these moments when Victor was reminded how little he really knew about Yuuri, about the life he had led before he came to Blue Anchor. About the people he had known. About the person he was. There was this side to him that sometimes shone through, of something hard and calloused, something so much more accustomed to hardship than Victor had ever been. He’d rarely seen it as clearly as he did now, but suddenly it wasn’t so difficult to imagine anymore, Yuuri, a little in his cups, angrily confronting Mr. Chulanont’s colleague about the bigoted remarks he’d made about them. 

Victor sighed.

“My apologies”, he said, “I did not mean to insult you. I do not think you naive, and I know that you are more than capable of looking after yourself. But even if you are so sure that I am not cruel—”

“You are not!”

“—can you honestly say that my behaviour did not hurt you?”

Yuuri blinked at him, then deflated a little.

“I suppose not”, he said eventually, “I guess I was…. But I also know that it was not your intention to hurt me.”

“It wasn’t”, Victor said earnestly, “I would never… I _do_ never want to hurt you, Yuuri. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve an apology and a promise to do better in the future.”

Yuuri nodded slowly, a strange expression on his face, somewhere between apprehension and wonder.

“So”, Victor said, squeezing Yuuri’s arms gently, “will you let me tell you how sorry I am for not replying to your letters these past months, and for making you believe I did not want to be your friend anymore? There were extraordinary circumstances that led to it, and I do admit that I had a hard time focusing on reading letters during that time, let alone replying to them. But that is not an excuse, and I want to do better by you in the future, if you’ll still be my friend.”

Nodding again, Yuuri whispered, “Of course”, and Victor finally felt a small smile spreading on his face. “I’m glad”, he said, “come on then, maybe we should get up off the floor.”

Steadying themselves against one another, they got slowly to their feet, a little wobbly after the long time sitting on the hard floors. Yuuri directed Victor toward one of the chairs while he busied himself with the kettle in order to make tea. Victor took a seat reluctantly, watching Yuuri across the room, all of his movements bearing such a comforting routine. He made use of the time when Yuuri’s back was turned to surreptitiously wipe his face and nose with a handkerchief and rake a hand through his hair. He was sure his face was still red and blotchy from crying, but there was nothing to be done about it now. He felt a lot calmer, a lot more settled now, though he wasn’t sure if it was due to the crying or due to things being cleared up between him and Yuuri. 

He cleared his throat when Yuuri carried over the tea tray, setting it down on the side table between their chairs.

“Tell me, Yuuri”, Victor said, “how has life been treating you since last you wrote me?”

“Ah, well…”, Yuuri said as he sat down, pulling up his feet to tuck them underneath himself in a movement so natural that Victor was sure it must be ingrained by years of habit, “for the most part it’s been the same, to be honest. I’ve been writing for the magazine—it’s good work, and it doesn’t get boring. Phichit and I have been keeping each other company on occasion, for supper or on a Sunday… but it’s all been very quiet, if I am to be honest. The only remarkable thing of the last few months actually happened just yesterday.”

“Me coming to visit you?”, Victor asked with a grin.

Yuuri’s answering smile was soft and genuine and it made Victor’s stomach clench painfully to see it. “That, too”, Yuuri said, “but I was actually referring to the reason I was unable to receive you here when you called on me yesterday.” Yuuri busied himself with the tea once more, straining the leaves and pouring cups for the both of them as he continued. “You see, by happenstance I was put into contact with my family’s solicitors yesterday. They had been unaware of my whereabouts since… well, since before I came of age. But since I did turn twenty last autumn, it appears they made some efforts to find me in order to… well, to execute my parents’ will.”

Yuuri paused in order to pick up his tea cup and, judging by his pained expression, to give himself a moment to collect himself. Victor stared at him, trying to sort through the new information he just received about Yuuri, trying to slot them into what he already knew. Then his brain latched on to the most urgent one.

“I’m so sorry, Yuuri”, he said, “I didn’t know your parents had passed.”

Yuuri waved his words away, but judging by the way he hid his expression behind his cup it was more reassurance than genuine indifference when he said: “Don’t worry about it. It was a long time ago—as I said, long before I came of age.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, they finally got ahold of me and informed me that I was entitled to an inheritance, a handsome sum to be paid out to me yearly. It’s not a fortune, and there’s no estate or title connected with it, as I knew there wouldn’t be, but it’s enough to take away all financial worries from someone with a lifestyle as humble as mine.”

Yuuri looked up at him now with a hesitant smile, and Victor hoped that it wasn’t too obvious that he was reeling from what he had just learnt. “That’s wonderful news, Yuuri. I’m happy to hear it”, he said, as he rapidly readjusted the image he hadn’t even been aware he had formed of Yuuri in his mind. 

It made his cheeks warm with embarrassment to admit it even to himself, but he became aware now that, judging from Yuuri’s circumstances, the way he talked about himself in relation to Victor and, if Victor was being completely honest with himself, his appearance, too, Victor had formed a certain vague idea of what Yuuri’s life had been like. A son of parents who had treated him cruelly, perhaps, a poor family in difficult circumstances or possibly teachers fallen on a hard time, judging by how well-read Yuuri was. A runaway, trying to escape a miserable situation, that was what Victor had always assumed. 

Loathe though he was to admit it, he never would have thought that Yuuri was the son of gentry, raised by parents so dear to him that their loss still obviously pained him so many years later. Never would he have thought that Yuuri may be recipient of an inheritance equal to or perhaps even greater than Victor’s own. It didn’t make a difference to Victor—he didn’t care about Yuuri’s status one way or the other—except perhaps to make him even more curious about the exact circumstances that had led to Yuuri being found unconscious in a field outside Blue Anchor, to Yuuri having worked as an usher at a school, to Yuuri having signed on to work aboard a ship for several years of his young life. 

But it pained Victor to realise that, despite being Victor’s equal in every way that mattered and, apparently, in a number of ways that didn’t, too, Yuuri still saw himself as so far beneath Victor as to not even be worthy of his friendship.

Victor swallowed the lump in his throat along with a sip of tea and shook himself out of his thoughts when he realised that Yuuri had spoken.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”, Victor asked, grimacing apologetically.

Yuuri chuckled with a slight shake of his head. “I just said that there will be some bureaucracy to take care of in order to prove that I really am who I claim to be, and then I believe there are some physical effects that my parents left to me that I should receive soon after.” Yuuri took another long, thoughtful drink of his tea. “I really wasn’t expecting this, and I dare say I would have made do without it”, he said, “but it will be good to be a bit more independent.”

“That is true”, Victor said, “I know you’re enjoying your work with the magazine, but it’d be nice not to be dependent on it.”

“Indeed. I wouldn’t even be bound to London anymore, necessarily. I chose it because of the better chances of finding work, and, well, because of Phichit, but if I’m being honest, life in so large a city is proving a bit much for me on occasion.”

“I understand”, Victor said, and he did. As much as he desired to spend time in London and see something of the life there, he could not envision residing in the city permanently after having spent all of his life in a small, peaceful village by the sea. “Well, you could choose to settle somewhere quieter now. Or you could just travel, and—”, he interrupted himself, gasping, as a thought struck him.

“Yuuri! You should travel with us!”

Yuuri blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“You could! With me and Yakov!”, Victor exclaimed. “We’re in London for a few more days before moving on to Paris, you could come with us!”

Yuuri chewed on his lips, eyebrows creased, and Victor fell silent, bracing himself for the rejection.

“Victor…”, Yuuri began, “I…. I’m not saying no. But I can’t just drop everything here immediately. I still have a job, I would at least have to give them some notice. Besides, I don’t even have access to the money yet, remember? Plus”, Yuuri sighed, “as much as I would like to go with you, I’m sure Mr. Feltsman would not be thrilled about my company.”

“Oh, blast Yakov”, Victor said with more conviction now than ever, “there is not a single reason why he should object to you travelling with us. But you are right—it is too short notice. But… if you wanted… well.” Victor took a deep breath. “We were planning to be in Paris for a fortnight, but we haven’t really decided where to go from there. To be honest… you know my yacht is almost finished? I’d been planning to take her out to visit the Isle of Man and the Hebrides for her maiden voyage. With… everything that happened, I haven’t quite been able to finish her and, I don’t know, sail off from Blue Anchor, you know?” Victor turned his tea cup slowly in his hands, staring down into the golden liquid. “But perhaps, if you were with me… it wouldn’t be quite so hard.”

“Victor….” Yuuri’s was strangely soft when he spoke, and Victor was a little startled by the warmth of his hand as he reached over and laid it on Victor’s arm, a steadying presence. “If you want me there, of course I’ll come with you. I’ll have to make arrangements, but there’ll be time while you’re in Paris. If you give me your address there, we can keep in contact in case there’s any news.”

“Really?”, Victor asked, looking up to meet Yuuri’s eyes that looked at him head-on, no wavering or uncertainty in them. 

“Of course”, Yuuri said, “I would love to travel with you. I would love to… spend more time with you. Besides, in all my years travelling, I never got to see the Hebrides. I hear they’re beautiful.”

A small smile formed on Victor’s lips as he nodded. “I’m sure they will be.”

He swallowed, tearing his gaze away from the soft, kind slopes of Yuuri’s face, and arresting for a moment on Yuuri’s hand still on his arm. “Thank you, Yuuri”, he whispered.

“It is my pleasure”, Yuuri said, his fingers squeezing ever so slightly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

With Yuuri’s warmth against his skin and the image in his mind of the two of them wandering the islands’ pale beaches and rolling hills together, Victor couldn’t help but agree.

“Me, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> As some of you may know I'm currently moving to a different city and since I won't have access to an internet connection for a couple of weeks, there will not be a new chapter of BIPMOK next week. If everything works out well, the next chapter should post on **July 17**. See you then!


	12. let us walk this road together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Victor and Yakov’s last day in London, then, the three men met up for dinner before the show.
> 
> Yuuri was waiting outside of the restaurant when Victor and Yakov arrived. He drew some curious, and, from what Victor could see, many admiring, glances from the passers-by, and Victor couldn’t fault them for it. Yuuri’s tux, being rented, as Victor knew since they had discussed it the day before, didn’t fit perfectly, but it accented his slender figure beautifully, his narrow waist and slightly rounded hips. His hair, neatly tied back at his neck, and the thin frame of his glasses drew attention to the fine structure of his face and his beautiful, large eyes. Victor already knew at a glance that he would have some difficulty focusing his attention on the dancers rather than Yuuri tonight. He wasn’t sure which would be more beautiful to watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I‘m back, I guess! For a few more chapters. editing and posting from my tablet with mobile data is a real pain y‘all better appreciate it 😂😂😂
> 
> As always, thanks to my lovely beta readers, [Zjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose) and [Harky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harky21)!

_… to leave the widow with her young child to her own devices in dealing with her husband‘s passing, no matter how strange the circumstances._

_Our friendship with Andrei having been well-known on the ship and the widow‘s address being, as we were informed, located in Somersetshire, not far from Exmouth where we were to land, we did not have a good excuse to make in order to extract ourselves from the first mate‘s request. We assented, therefore, despite my revulsion at the mere thought of sticking around the wretched ship and the wretched man any longer than necessary._

_I will spare you the details of how it all came about, but the long and short of it is that we reached Exmouth port, and a message was dispatched to delicately inform the widow of her husband‘s demise. Along with the condolences came a summons to identify and collect his body to be interred in England. Your father and I, meanwhile, reluctantly established ourselves at a local inn for a few days..._

* * *

The next few days were the happiest Victor remembered spending in a long time. 

For as long as he was in London still, he spent as much time as he could with Yuuri. Naturally, Yuuri still had his work to do, and Victor himself, too, had some engagements with Yakov that he didn’t feel he could just drop for Yuuri’s sake. But they did find time to take a long, leisurely walk through St. James’s Park, ambling along as they caught each other up on the last few months of their lives now that the air was cleared between them and the uncertainty replaced with the hum of anticipation.

Neither of them had much unusual to report, but still they managed to fill some hours easily with idle chatter about Makkachin and Blue Anchor on Victor’s side, Phichit and the routine of London life on Yuuri’s side. 

Victor told Yuuri of his mother’s illness and her funeral, too—it was easier to keep his composure if he did it in a public place, where it wouldn’t do for him to make a scene. Yuuri listened to Victor’s grief with patience and compassion, and in exchange he shared more about his work—how he still felt under-qualified, and how he was sure his colleagues at the magazine were looking down on him because of his lack of education. He spoke fondly of his editor, however, one Mr. Cialdini, who, it seemed, had taken a shine to Yuuri’s work and encouraged him always to continue. 

Yuuri’s words were reverent, a kind of fervent passion underlying his quiet voice, when he spoke of the ballet, the few performances he had gotten to see since he came to London. His words about how he had never thought he’d have the privilege to see a performance like it took on another tone in light of the things Victor had recently learnt about his family. Yuuri must have grown up learning about arts and culture, dance and literature, perhaps as excited about experiencing them himself as Victor had always been, only to have them torn away from him in circumstances Victor still did not fully understand.

It made Victor all the more convinced of his idea of taking Yuuri out to a proper ballet in these few days they spent together. When he proposed the idea to Yuuri, Yuuri’s eyes widened and shone, making Victor’s heart stick in his throat, and though it took some convincing, Yuuri finally assented to let Victor pay for the ticket. He could, after all, return the favour when they were travelling together, once he had access to his inheritance. Not that Victor felt there was any need at all for repayment, but this stipulation was what it took for Yuuri to finally relent, and besides: Victor would welcome any opportunity to go out with Yuuri again. 

On Victor and Yakov’s last day in London, then, the three men met up for dinner before the show.

Yuuri was waiting outside of the restaurant when Victor and Yakov arrived. He drew some curious, and, from what Victor could see, many admiring, glances from the passers-by, and Victor couldn’t fault them for it. Yuuri’s tux, being rented, as Victor knew since they had discussed it the day before, didn’t fit perfectly, but it accented his slender figure beautifully, his narrow waist and slightly rounded hips. His hair, neatly tied back at his neck, and the thin frame of his glasses drew attention to the fine structure of his face and his beautiful, large eyes. Victor already knew at a glance that he would have some difficulty focusing his attention on the dancers rather than Yuuri tonight. He wasn’t sure which would be more beautiful to watch. 

Victor could see Yuuri was fidgeting, relief visible on his face when he saw the two of them approaching. 

“Yuuri!”, Victor called out as they reached him, “how good to see you. You look wonderful.”

He took Yuuri’s gloved hand and, only just holding back from ghosting a kiss over the back of it, squeezed it warmly instead. A hint of colour crept into Yuuri’s face as he replied. 

“Thank you. You, too.”

Victor grinned, preening a little. His own tails were tailored to him, perhaps a year or two out of season since he hadn’t had a reason to get a new one made recently, but they were finely made and still fit his frame perfectly.

“Thank you!”, Victor echoed, before remembering himself and turning to his companion. “I’m sorry, you remember Yakov, I’m sure! Yakov, Yuuri. I know your acquaintance hasn’t been the most friendly so far, but I’m sure if we just start over, we can all be the best of friends.”

He shot a warning glance at Yakov—he’d implored him beforehand to be civil with Yuuri tonight, and to give him a real chance, so he hoped his old tutor would heed his words. At least Yakov shook Yuuri’s hand without hesitation and with only the slightest sour expression on his face, so Victor allowed himself to be carefully optimistic.

He supposed that it must have something to do with the fact that he’d told Yakov in broad strokes about Yuuri’s inheritance and what Victor had thus inferred about his family, but if it would make Yakov receptive enough to give Yuuri a real chance at proving himself to be the good person Victor knew him to be, he didn’t care about the reason.

“You needn’t have waited out here for us, Yuuri”, Victor said, “you could have waited at the table. I’m sure they would have seated you.”

“Ah, I wasn’t sure what…”, Yuuri said with a shrug, and trailed off, making an uncertain motion toward the door with his hand.

Victor chuckled. 

“Well, no matter now. Let us just go in, shall we?”

He held his arm out, letting Yuuri and Yakov enter the restaurant ahead of him.

* * *

Conversation at dinner was a little stilted at first, Mr. Feltsman clearly making an effort to be friendly that didn’t come naturally to him. 

Yuuri himself was nervous, and awkward as a result, stammering his inadequate way through a response every time Mr. Feltsman addressed him. Conversing with Victor was easier, and Yuuri was thankful for every time he injected himself into their conversation. Judging by his reassuring glances and, on occasion, his steady hand on Yuuri’s arm, Victor was aware of his nerves, and his presence helped ease them slowly. By the time they’d reached the entrée, Yuuri was able to make cordial, if superficial, conversation with Mr. Feltsman.

They talked mostly about the food, which was excellent, and the upcoming ballet, the latter topic filling Yuuri with undeniable excitement. They lost themselves for a while debating the relative merits of Coralli versus Taglioni, all three men protective of their own distinct opinions. Since they were going to see _La Sylphide_ this night, they finally settled on reserving their final judgement until after the show.

Yuuri could feel his excitement mounting when they finished their dinner and got on their way to the Alhambra theatre. He was glad to have had the experience of minor ballet shows to prepare him for it, because otherwise he felt like the grandeur of it and the anticipation and the emotions running high may have proved too overwhelming for him.

As it was, he felt nervous as they made their way through the crowds in the foyer, intimidated by all the members of high-society milling around them, showing off their finery. In comparison to them, he felt wholly inadequate. Once they’d made it to their seats, however, he felt calmer. 

The murmured conversations in the dim lights, the brightly lit stage, empty with its curtains drawn, all this was more familiar to Yuuri. No one—except for Victor, perhaps—was paying attention to Yuuri now, and so he felt free to focus all of his own attention on the stage, too. 

Victor leaned close to him to speak, remarking on the program or the lighting or the architecture of the theatre, and his low voice by Yuuri’s ear made him shiver. He replied in a murmur of his own, glad of the distraction as the anticipation in the theatre grew palpable with every passing minute. 

Yuuri wasn’t sure how he felt—there were so many emotions warring within him. With the memory of the few minor shows he’d seen still vivid in his mind, he couldn’t help but feel excited to see what kind of a difference it would make to see it done in so professional a setting, on such a beautiful stage and with a full orchestra. He was sure the effect must be stunning, and he was looking forward to seeing it. 

At the same time, there was a certain underlying reluctance in his stomach that he couldn’t quite explain. He’d felt it at the last shows, too, but not quite to the same degree. There was a voice at the back of his mind, then and now, telling him that he shouldn’t be here, or rather, he shouldn’t be _here_ , among the spectators, waiting for the dancers to take the stage. Instead, he should have been behind the stage, waiting with them, tense and ready, until the curtain rose. He should have been enough, he should have been better, he should have _made_ it. 

When he thought about it rationally, Yuuri knew that the voice wasn’t right—he didn’t belong back there, not truly. As much as he’d dreamed of it when he was younger, dreamed of _one day_ , as much as he’d been pushing himself toward it and had let himself be pushed toward it, it wasn’t his place. He’d never been made to be in that kind of limelight—there was too much hidden in him that the bright stage lights would no doubt reveal—and he wouldn’t have been able to bear it even if he got the chance. 

And yet, he did not belong here, either, among the noblemen and -women in their finely tailored dresses and suits, alongside Victor whose presence was warm and steady beside him. No matter what his birth certificate might say, no matter what his family’s solicitors might say, this was not his place in this life. Had not been ever since his parents had passed away.

It wasn’t long now until the lights in the theatre dimmed further, and with them the murmuring voices ceased, an expectant hush falling over the crowds as the bright stage lights stood in stark relief. Yuuri’s eyes were fixed on the stage. A little breathless already, he started slightly when he felt Victor’s warm hand on his arm, squeezing gently.

“Excited?”

* * *

Victor had been correct in his suspicion—throughout the entire ballet, he could barely tear his eyes away from Yuuri.

Watching Yuuri’s reactions, his emotions in response to the music and the dancers on stage, was a gripping experience in and of itself, telling its own story. Yuuri’s face was so expressive, his body language more unguarded than Victor had seen it yet, and he could read in it a tale of sorrow and wistfulness, of grief and pain and wonder and excitement. Thankfully, Yuuri seemed to be too enraptured to notice that Victor’s gaze was fixed on Yuuri’s profile rather than the stage more often than not, so Victor could see his fill of Yuuri gasping in reaction to the choreography, tearing up with the crescendo of the orchestra and, most enchantingly, smiling this small, sad smile filled with longing, lingering on his lips time and again. It filled Victor with an unexpectedly overwhelming wave of fondness, and he had to consciously hold himself back from reaching out and wiping away Yuuri’s tears before they fell.

He couldn’t understand how so many of the people in his vicinity were convinced that Yuuri must be some scoundrel or have an ulterior motive of some sort based solely on his appearance, or the circumstances of how they met him, when all Victor could see when he looked at Yuuri was a young man so full of passion and curiosity and intelligence, a man that inspired Victor to reach out beyond the limits of his own life and learn more, see more.

When the curtain finally fell and a wave of applause swept through the audience, Yuuri surreptitiously wiped away his tears in the darkness, and Victor averted his gaze, expressing his own appreciation with applause, though he did wish he was able to offer some kind of comfort to Yuuri. Yakov, on Victor’s other side, seemed to have been startled out of a pleasant slumber by the sudden rush of noise around him, and peered around him with narrowed eyes before sitting up a little straighter in his seat with a grumble. 

It was a while yet before they made it out of the theatre and somewhere quiet enough that they could converse easily, and Victor kept an eye on Yuuri all throughout. He was silent and appeared lost in thought when they filed out of the hall, but he didn’t seem sad. Quite the opposite; he seemed to be radiating some kind of quiet joy, his eyes shining and his smiles easy, if distracted. 

As they walked down Piccadilly, Victor gently touched Yuuri’s arm, startling him out of his reverie. “Did you enjoy yourself, Yuuri?”, he asked quietly.

Yuuri blinked up at him for a second, then a wide smile spread on his lips. “I did”, he said, “I can’t thank you enough, Victor, this has been… it was even more beautiful than I imagined, I can’t believe I was so lucky—…”, he interrupted himself, wetting his lips. “Thank you, Victor.”

Victor returned his smile easily. “You are so welcome, Yuuri. I am glad that I could give this so you. I’m glad I could make it up to you like this.”

“Victor, no”, Yuuri said, stopping in his tracks, making Victor halt as well while Yakov, a few paces ahead of them, walked on. “You have nothing to make up for, truly, and I don’t want this to be—” Yuuri chewed on his lower lip, seeking Victor’s gaze earnestly, a flicker of uncertainty in them. “Can this just be… us? No debt to repay, just… two friends, spending time together?”

Warmth spread in Victor’s stomach and up his spine at Yuuri’s words. “Of course”, he said softly, “I’d like that. But only if it goes for you, too. You don’t owe me anything for taking care of you when you were ill. While I appreciate your gratefulness, and I, too, am grateful for your forgiveness, I think… no more obligation. No more debt. Let us just… be together, because we want to.”

“That… sounds good”, Yuuri said, and with a deep breath, he reached out and took ahold of Victor’s hand. They were both wearing gloves, but nonetheless Victor was sure he could feel the warmth of Yuuri’s skin, could feel the solid, real touch of his fingers. “Thank you for tonight, Victor”, Yuuri said, “It has been the most wonderful experience. I should get back to Pimlico, but I will see you again very soon. Have a wonderful time in Paris, and safe travels.”

“Thank you”, Victor said, “I will write to you once I know exactly when we’ll be getting back. I… I can’t say I’m not reluctant to let you go, but I can comfort myself with the knowledge that when we meet again, we’ll… we’ll have all the time in the world.” He squeezed Yuuri’s hand gently. “I’ll miss you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri nodded slowly. “And I you”, he said, rubbing his thumb over the back of Victor’s hand, before letting go abruptly and turning away to cross Piccadilly and take a turn toward St. James’s Street.

Victor looked after him until he’d turned the corner, following the graceful step of Yuuri’s feet, the shine of his dark hair in the gaslight. Then he turned to where Yakov had stopped a little ways down the street, his expression darkened into a scowl.

Making his way toward him Victor lifted one eyebrow in a challenge, but Yakov said nothing, so they fell into step again on their way back toward the hotel. For a few minutes there was silence between them, only their steps and the occasional laugh or snippet of conversation from passers-by to be heard. Victor lost himself in thoughts of Yuuri for a while, recalling the feeling of his hand in Yuuri’s, the unwavering, intense gaze of his dark eyes. He thought about if Yuuri had made his way back to Pimlico yet, conjured up visions of the time they would be spending together in only a few short weeks’ time. 

Yakov appeared to be lost in his own thoughts, but eventually he cleared his throat and opened his mouth, startling Victor from his fantasies. 

“You need to be careful with him, Vitya.”

Victor snapped his gaze toward Yakov, scowling at his profile.

“How can you still say this, Yakov!”, he groused, “I thought you… you promised to give him a chance! Yuuri’s been a perfect gentleman all evening, what reason could you possibly have to still dislike him?”

“I have given him a chance tonight, and you are right that there is no reason to dislike him. I will be honest in saying that his nervous disposition and his avoidant attitude still does not particularly endear him to me, but up until just now I couldn’t see much harm coming from you being friends with him.”

Victor frowned, eyes still fixed to the side of Yakov’s face.

“Just now…?”

Yakov gave a deep sigh.

“Being friends… is not all that you want with this boy, is it?”

“I—”, hastily averting his gaze, Victor could feel warmth rising into his cheeks, “I don’t see what kind of difference that could possibly make.”

Yakov shook his head slowly. “It can make a world of difference, Vitya. If he is trying to win your affections, then who knows what he’s really after.”

Victor scoffed. “He’s not _trying to win_ anything! He didn’t _ask_ for me to feel this way, he’s not trying to seduce me, for goodness sake!” Frustrated, he ran a hand through his hair. “Besides, what could he possibly be after? My inheritance? It’s hardly enough to be worth the effort, and besides, I told you he just came into an inheritance of his own.”

“That’s what he told you”, Yakov said, keeping his voice gentle, which only served to irritate Victor more, “but do you actually know that this inheritance really exists? Doesn’t it seem terribly convenient that he inherited just when you did, too? And if he really is a vagrant and a vagabond, the money you have will be a right fortune for him.”

“Do not speak of him like this, Yakov, you have no right! You don’t know him, Yuuri would never—”

“Neither do you really, Vitya”, Yakov interrupted him. “You may think you know him, but all you really have is his word, and a reluctant and unreliable word at that. Blast it, you don’t even know if Yuuri Katsuki is actually his real name.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Yakov. If he was pretending to be someone else, why would he possibly choose a name so unusual and conspicuous as that?”

“Who knows?”, Yakov said, “He may have reasons of his own that we don’t understand. Perhaps he picked a foreign name to go with his appearance in hopes that no one would question it for that precise reason.”

By now, Victor has stopped in his tracks, staring at Yakov incredulously. “I will not have you say one more bad word about Yuuri, Yakov. I will not listen to you slandering him. I don’t care what you believe. I trust him.”

Yakov halted as well, turning around to him with another deep sigh. “And that’s what I’m concerned about, Vitya. I’m not trying to hurt you, or do an injustice to him. I’m just trying to look out for you. Maybe he really is who he says he is. I’m not even telling you to stop seeing him. Just asking that you don’t let your guard down too much around him. Be careful of your heart. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Victor shook his head, fists clenching at his sides. “You don’t care about my heart, Yakov. What you care about is my money, and my status.”

With this, he brushed past Yakov and continued on his way back to the hotel on his own, ignoring Yakov’s shouts at his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I know next to nothing about ballet. I tried to find out a little bit about ballets in Victorian London so I hope I‘m not too far off the mark. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and let me just say that I appreciate your comments so, so much. 💜💜💜
> 
> See you next Friday for Chapter 13!


	13. no matter where it leads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He made his disapproval of Yakov’s behaviour known by treating him to silence for their entire journey. He refused to acknowledge Yakov’s words where he could, gave him no more than a grunt or a single syllable when it was unavoidable. He gave out easy chatter and amiable smiles to the concierge at the hotel, the driver of their hansom, the porter on their train, only to fall back into sullen silence once they were alone.
> 
> He knew he was being petulant, but he didn’t care. It was good to see the contrition carefully hidden underneath a layer of bluster on Yakov’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go with the next chapter! Sorry that I didn‘t make it in time for last week—with my thesis defense i had too many other things on my mind to write much, I‘m afraid. But now the exam‘s behind me and I am basically graduated so! yay! hopefully that‘ll leave more time to focus on writing.
> 
> Thanks to my lovely betas, [Zjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose) and [Harky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harky21)!
> 
> There‘s a bit of a **CW** for this chapter, see end note for details.
> 
> Enjoy!

_… Your father and I, meanwhile, reluctantly established ourselves at a local inn for a few days._

_The widow, who was introduced to us by the name of Sofia Nikiforov, was a refined young lady, certainly well-educated and well-mannered, though she had a look about her of someone who had known too much sorrow already in her young life. It made me wonder, seeing her, what falsehoods it was that Andrei had presented her with in order to tempt her to him. I did not judge her for her position: Andrei had been a man of considerable personal charms and, it appeared, a very accomplished actor, for during the almost two years that I had known him, I had not once suspected him to not be who he said he was. Had I not been already so happily established with my own husband, I believe I may well have been worn down by his enduring advances as well._

_Sofia bore her husband‘s death with a brave attempt at concealing her distress, thanking the crew for bringing back her husband‘s body to be buried in the soil of England rather than in the dark waters at sea. She did, it appeared, know who I was, and what my relation to her late husband was, and had, I suspect, at least an inkling of what he had attempted in the course of the last two years, for she treated us with a mixture of shame, distrust and resentment. She never openly accused us of anything, and I think she was healthily ashamed of her Andrei‘s tactics and the mockery he had thus made from their marriage, but I could also read in her gaze that she blamed me for the death of her son‘s father as much as I did myself…_

* * *

Things were tense between them the next morning and all throughout their long journey to Paris. Victor sat up in his hotel room for a long time in the morning, wondering if he should even undertake the journey with Yakov or if he should just stay right here in London, with Yuuri, instead. But in the end, he didn’t see a way around it. He knew he would not get rid of Yakov that easily. If he stopped in London, so Yakov would stop. If he travelled on, Yakov would follow. And, as much as he didn’t even want to look at Yakov’s face right now, he knew the old man acted out of some sense of responsibility for Victor.

Never mind that Victor hadn’t asked for his help. Never mind that Victor was a grown man who could make his own choices. Never mind that Victor had told him off multiple times—if Yakov thought that Victor was making a mistake, he wouldn’t let up before he’d made sure that Victor was okay. It was infuriating—and yet strangely comforting. Victor just wished he knew how to make Yakov see that he was wrong this time, about Yuuri—he was wrong. Victor knew it, deep in his bones, he was sure. Yuuri didn’t want to hurt him. He didn’t know how to make Yakov understand. He knew Yakov would always find another reason to be suspicious of him.

He made his disapproval of Yakov’s behaviour known by treating him to silence for their entire journey. He refused to acknowledge Yakov’s words where he could, gave him no more than a grunt or a single syllable when it was unavoidable. He gave out easy chatter and amiable smiles to the concierge at the hotel, the driver of their hansom, the porter on their train, only to fall back into sullen silence once they were alone.

He knew he was being petulant, but he didn’t care. It was good to see the contrition carefully hidden underneath a layer of bluster on Yakov’s face.

When they arrived in Paris, Lilia was expecting them at her townhouse, greeting Victor with a kiss to each cheek, which he enthusiastically returned, and Yakov with a cool stare and a slightly raised eyebrow, which was also returned in equal measure. Lilia was still as severe and impeccable as Victor remembered her being, though nowhere near as tall and not quite so intimidating. She gave them the opportunity to freshen up somewhat before serving tea, and, sitting in her impeccably clean and tastefully decorated library, they got down to brass tacks.

This was one thing Victor appreciated about Lilia more, now that he was grown: Lilia did not do pleasantries or idle chatter; she did not beat around the bush. If she had something to say, she said it outright. This was one regard in which she resembled her husband, and perhaps one of the reasons, too, that they lived not only in separate houses or even towns, but separate countries altogether. They were not divorced; from what Yakov said, Lilia thought that divorce was tasteless. But Victor remembered vaguely that sometime in the murky years of his youth, Lilia had packed her bags and left for Paris, and had not been seen in Blue Anchor since. If he was quite honest, until Yakov had spoken of visiting her, he hadn’t been aware the two of them were still in touch at all.

Victor appreciated Lilia’s bluntness now, when they had hardly sat down with their tea before she said: “My condolences for your mother’s passing, Vitya. We were not close, but she was a good woman. I trust you’ve been holding up?”

Here, at least, was someone who didn’t walk on eggshells around him, barely daring to acknowledge his mother’s death in his presence. Victor couldn’t pretend it was a pleasant topic of conversation, but it was better by far than having it hang over their heads while they exchanged meaningless pleasantries.

“Thank you, Madame Lilia”, he said, the form of address still ingrained deeply by years of habit, “It’s been a difficult loss, but I… I’ll make it through, in time.”

“Certainly”, Lilia replied, and her tone brooked no argument. And that was it on the topic from her—she moved on effortless to other areas of conversation to which Victor followed gladly. Occasionally, Yakov would add some grumbled remark or another, but they went largely unacknowledged, to Victor’s secret, vicious, satisfaction.

There were few topics that Lilia deemed worthy of talking about for any length of time, among them architecture, charity, art and, of course, first and foremost, dance, seeing as she had established herself as one of Paris’ prime ballet teachers. Victor was only too happy to make use of what he had recently learnt from and experienced with Yuuri, superficial though it was, to keep the conversation going, and Lilia seemed to be pleased—as much as you could tell with Lilia—that he was not entirely ignorant on the topic. She also expressed some interest in Yuuri, whose name obviously came up multiple times, and so Victor was only too happy to tell her all about him, gleefully ignoring Yakov’s scowl beside him.

“Does he dance at all himself, your young man?”, Lilia asked after Victor told him of the observations Yuuri had made in his letter after seeing his first performance.

The name by which she called him made Victor’s stomach flutter pleasantly, so much so that he failed to correct her. “No, no”, he said, “he just writes about it beautifully, and he has quite a passion for it. But he doesn’t dance, no.”

“Are you quite sure?”, Lilia asked, one eyebrow raised, “it is rare for one who hasn’t danced himself to have such an insight into its mechanisms.”

“I don’t think he would have had the opportunity to learn, though he may have wished to”, Victor conceded, but even as he spoke he wasn’t quite so certain of his words. If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t actually know enough about Yuuri’s past to judge if he’d ever taken dance lessons or perhaps even been on a stage. All he knew was that during all their conversations about ballet, Yuuri had never mentioned anything about it. But then there were a great many things that Yuuri didn’t mention. 

Victor tried to put it out of his mind, laughing off Lilia’s doubt, but still he couldn’t help reflect in the privacy of his own mind on the lightness of Yuuri’s step, the way he always bore himself with so much grace, and the strangely wistful expression in his eyes when he watched the ballet.

Over dinner they discussed their plans over the next couple of weeks, setting dates for many of the things that Victor had always dreamed of seeing in Paris, many of which Lilia scoffed at for being exceedingly banal, though thankfully she did not attempt to persuade him from them. She did have her own itinerary to add, however, with all the things she felt Victor ought to see while he was there. These, of course, included some more ballets as well as backstage visits to some of the theatres Lilia worked with, but there was also a visit to the Louvre and a few fine restaurants on the list. 

All things considered, their time in Paris was going to be extremely busy, but Victor didn’t mind it. Many of these things he’d been dreaming for years of seeing, even if Yakov was not exactly the kind of company he had envisioned. More importantly, however, their busy schedule meant that the time would pass him by quickly, and so the more quickly he would be back in London with Yuuri. 

Their first few days passed in a blur of activity, visiting museums and galleries, being shown the high points of Parisian architecture, walking along the Seine, each day ending with a sumptuous dinner at a different etablissement. Throughout, Victor had kept up his stony silence toward Yakov, who seemed to have accepted his lot and given up on trying to make Victor talk to him beyond what was absolutely necessary. Instead, Victor conversed as freely as he was able with Lilia and various of her friends and acquaintances that he was introduced to. 

They still had more than half of their stay ahead of them, but Victor had to admit, he was already feeling overwhelmed by all the new impressions and insights he’d gotten, not to mention being constantly surrounded by French. The language and the people both felt strange to Victor—though he had learnt at least his basic French, hearing it spoken all around him at a rapid-fire pace was much more tiring than he would have thought. The French people, too, were rather different from what he had been used to from the English—not in a bad way; he appreciated their quick wit, their spontaneity, their easy laughs. But having never really spent time outside of England before, he felt he was rather struck by a case of culture shock.

He was therefore eager for a taste of familiarity when, on the morning of their fifth day in France, a letter was delivered to him at breakfast. Knowing that he had given his address at Lilia’s townhouse only to two people prior to his departure, he found himself immediately hoping that the letter would be from Yuuri, and was almost ready to toss it aside again when he saw that the script on the envelope was not Yuuri’s familiar one. 

But, considering his butler in Blue Anchor had been instructed to forward only the most urgent mail, he supposed he ought to at least take a look at the wretched thing, in case it was anything that required his immediate attention. Examining the envelope, he saw that the letter stemmed from a solicitor based in a town unfamiliar to him in Devonshire. It was not a solicitor he had dealt with before, but nonetheless, wondering if perhaps there was something the matter with the execution of his mother’s will, he opened the correspondence. 

Skimming the contents of the letter quickly in hopes of getting back to his breakfast, he gave a cry of shock, starting to his feet in a sudden movement that made both Yakov and Lilia look up at him in surprise. 

“Vitya?”, Yakov asked, his eyebrows drawn tight over his eyes, and so it was that Victor addressed his first voluntary words at Yakov in almost a week. 

“Yakov!”, he exclaimed, his eyes still scanning the lines as if to detect some mistake in them, “This—… this says that I have inherited the Petersburg Manor.”

* * *

It took them quite a while to calm down enough to thoroughly understand the legal terms laid bare in the letter, but the facts of the matter were these: The Petersburg estate was in possession of Victor’s mother’s family. It was where she had spent her childhood, but the relationship with her family having soured with her marriage, Victor had never set foot on it. Victor didn’t know much about his family, but he knew that his grandfather and the older of his mother’s brothers had passed away some years since, leaving the estate in the latter’s son’s hands, Victor’s cousin. Her second brother, along with his wife and child, lived with them on the estate. They had been informed of their sister’s death when it occurred a few months ago, and while Victor had not received any answering communication from the younger brother and his family, his cousin had written back to him expressing his sympathies. He’d said he didn’t bear Victor any ill will and would welcome him gladly as his guest at the estate, should he ever wish to travel to Devonshire. Victor had not considered it, having no wish to associate with people who had treated his mother so poorly when she was alive. Now, however, through an extraordinary chain of events, it seemed the decision was taken out of his hands. 

It had all started, the letter said, when his cousin, William by name, had been in London for a trip of a few days. Taking a turn on the Thames on a ferry, a fair-haired, graceful woman had caught his eye, being solitary on the ship and exhibiting rather a nervous and agitated behaviour. William had kept half an eye on her throughout the journey, both because of her beauty and her unusual behaviour, watching where she was pacing the deck and staring out over the river from the railing. Thus, he was one of the first to see when she suddenly threw herself overboard. Without losing a moment’s time to shock, William divulged himself of his coat and dove into the murky waters of the river after her. All of this he later told at the police station, after he had dragged the woman to the shore and both of them had been fished out of the waters by curious bystanders. Both William and the woman were shivering when they made it out of the water, the weather slowly but surely descending into autumn and the chill of the water having seeped into their bones. But while the woman was in short order bundled up and taken to a hospital to be cared for, William, never having been sick a day in his life, waved of any concerns and went to the police station in his soaked clothes and his coat retrieved from the ship, in order to give his statement of the situation. 

The next morning he was lying prone in his hotel room with a high fever, and few days later both William and the woman he had attempted to rescue had succumbed to the chill. 

Of course, news of his passing was at once sent out to his uncle and cousin, who were, at the time, travelling over the alps to South Tyrol. Shocked and distressed at receiving the news, they immediately turned their coach around, despite the warnings of their guides that the weather was changing and the fog coming in over the mountains. Their coach was next seen several days later, shattered at the bottom of a ravine. 

Thus it happened that in short succession, the three next heirs to the Petersburg estate had passed away, leaving the estate and the title to fall into Victor’s hands. 

Even long after Victor, Yakov and Lilia had, between the three of them, made sense of the sequence of events that had led to this letter being received, Victor felt like the severity of the news contained within it did not quite penetrate his mind. He sat for a long time, silent, trying to wrap his minds around, the fact that three members of his family that he, for reasons he didn’t understand, had never known, were now dead and, as a result, the possession of an estate that he had never seen and a title he had never been interested in was now his.

While Yakov and Lilia bustled around, arranging what must be arranged for their journey back and debating the course of action to be undertaken, Victor just found himself numbly, hysterically wondering if this meant he wouldn’t be able to travel with Yuuri after all. 

It wasn’t until much later that Victor found the presence of mind to reread the letter and see what it actually asked of him. The executors of the Petersburg estate asked him to let them know at his earliest convenience when he was planning on taking possession of the house. His uncle‘s and his cousin‘s widows asked leave to stay at the house for another fortnight in order to get their affairs in order and arrange for other accommodations. Victor tried to put himself in their position; it was not so difficult. He couldn’t imagine what kind of pain and distress it would have caused him to be chased from his own home a mere two weeks after his mother’s passing. No matter what his relationship with this part of his family, he couldn’t bear the thought of these poor women, who had just lost their spouses, being forced to look for a new home, lest they be left without a roof over their heads, rather than being able to grieve their losses. 

Quietly, in between the bustle of servants and the heated discussion of Yakov and Lilia, Victor got up and went to the writing desk in Lilia’s library, sitting down to pen a reply to the solicitor. Acknowledging the receipt of the letter and thanking them for their information, he confirmed that he would be willing to meet with a representative of their firm in London soon, in order to take care of any necessary paperwork. He would, however, he wrote, not be taking formal possession of the estate until three months hence. During this time, his aunt and his cousin were more than welcome to stay at the house as long as they wished and look for new accommodations at their leisure. He expressed his condolences to be passed along to them and closed the letter without much more ado, except to let the solicitors know when he could be expected back in London and how to reach him once he was there.

Then he sealed the letter and quietly handed it off to a servant to be sent out with the next post, before returning to Yakov and Lilia, still arguing heatedly in the breakfast room, though it was now well after noon. They only seemed to notice his absence when he returned, interrupting their argument to look at him sternly.

“Vitya”, Yakov said, “get over here. There is much to discuss. We need to arrange for travel back to England, and secure accommodation in London, or perhaps we should go straight to Devon… You will need to write to the solicitors and agree upon an appointment and then—”

“It’s already taken care of”, Victor said, interrupting Yakov’s rambling. 

Yakov stopped dead in his words. “What is?”

“The letter to the solicitors”, Victor said, and he relayed his reply to them both, along with his reasons for delaying his travels to Devonshire. Both Yakov and Lilia stared at him in quiet astonishment, as if they had never heard of someone inheriting an estate and willingly delaying its possession any later than the earliest possible date—which likely they hadn’t. Surely they couldn’t imagine a young man not being eager to pick up his title and take up residence at his very own estate. Victor just gave them a tired smile.

“I do apologise that our visit is cut short like this, Madame Lilia”, he said, “I am aware you went to many pains in arranging an itinerary for us. I hope I’ll be able to come back one day and experience Paris under quieter circumstances. If you do travel to England again sometime, you are most welcome to call at Petersburg House.”

Yakov shook his head incredulously. “What were you thinking, Vitya? Just making a rash decision like this without talking it over at all? Whatever are you going to do for the next three months?”

Victor gave him a patient smile.

“I am going to do what I was planning on doing all along, Yakov. I will finish my yacht, and I will travel the Irish Sea with Yuuri.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW:** This chapter contains mention of a suicide attempt of a very minor character and the death of several very minor characters, by illness and accident.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading 💜💜💜
> 
> You can find me on tumblr and twitter, feel free to shout at me there or in the comments.
> 
> Also, if you want to know how you can read the new chapter one week before everyone else, check out my twitter!


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